The Messenger
by Astrum Ululatum
Summary: After a strange visitation from a woman in white, the cracks begin to show in Bartz's normal life and what starts as a fun adventure fast becomes all too real. Memories are dangerous and evil abounds in many forms. Once begun, there can be no going back and now Bartz is in for a whole mess of trouble. But at least he's not alone. {AU & slash}
1. Chapter 0 :: The Lull Before the Squall

**Disclamation! **Dissidia: Final Fantasy © Square Enix.

**A/N!** This first one's more of an introductory chapter, just to sort of give you the layout of things and introduce our main characters—don't worry, everyone will make an appearance and play a role in this story. And I do mean everyone.

_THE MESSENGER (featuring Your Favorite Enemies) – Takeharu Ishimoto_

* * *

**The Messenger**

Chapter Zero :: The Lull Before the Squall

_Ring… Ring… Ring… Ring—_**click.**

"_Hey, what's up? …Uh-huh. …Yeah. …Hey, hold that thought, I'm not actually here right now, so leave a message and I'll get back to you A.S.A.P. so we can continue this _wonderful_ conversation! Thanks!"_ **Beep.**

"God, Bartz, on any other day I'd yell at you for that stupid answering message…fools me every time…but…I dunno… Something's not right, man, I don't…I don't know what it is, but there's definitely something _weird_ going on in town. It's like there's this…there's this _thickness_ in the air, like it's going to rain, but it's still summer.

"So…um, call me back and don't call the house phone, call my cell. Kuja's back and answering the home phone every time it rings, it's kinda horrible. Kuja… Kuja's different, too…" **Click.**

* * *

The wind ran its fingers through Bartz's hair as he pedaled down a self-made dirt path that snaked through the woods. It wasn't really so much a _wood_ as it was a smattering of trees near the edge of town that separated the apartment complex where Zidane lived alone—compliments of his never-present older sibling—and the small, single-story cottage that Bartz had inherited from his late father. There were plenty of streets that Bartz could have taken, but the little dirt path was faster and more peaceful. Bartz usually didn't mind the trees, they sang when the wind blew through them and cast patterns of light and shadow across the earth, but somehow today was different. The more he thought back on the message Zidane had left on his phone, the more he came to realize that Zidane was absolutely right.

The usually dry summer air was thick and heavy, like a black veil hanging over town, and everything just felt…_off_. Even the trees along the path were different; Bartz felt like they were staring at him, waiting for _something_ to happen. It was unnatural.

It was a relief when he cleared the trees and entered the short stretch of sidewalk that led to the front entrance of the apartment complex. He chained his bike to the offered bike rack and bounced up the front door, buzzing in Zidane's apartment. Someone unfamiliar answered.

"Well, hello, who is this?" crooned a velvety voice, crackling over the intercom.

"It's Bartz…?"

"Bartz? Hm, I don't know any _'Bartz.' _Go away."

Very faintly in the background, Bartz could make out Zidane's voice yelling, "C'mon Kuja! Just let him in!"

There was a scuffling sound, an aggravated yell, and then Zidane's voice came over the speaker with more clarity, "Come on in, Bartz."

The lock on the door clicked and Bartz let himself inside; he scampered to the elevator and rode it to the third floor. On the outside, the complex looked dull and plain, the walls were beige and it lacked any sort of defining trim, the roof was flat and only accessible to the janitor and superintendant, and most of the windows were filled with the same crème colored curtains. On the _inside_, however, the complex was vibrant and pleasant; it was filled with live plants in tasteful pots and geometric paintings that always seem to have gained new shapes whenever Bartz saw them. The flooring was hardwood, but blanketed by thick blue rugs with straight black lines along the edges. The whole place had a very high-class museum-like feel to it, though Bartz knew for a fact that it was a rather inexpensive place as far as apartment complexes went.

He skipped his way down the left hall, all the way to the last room, the one that made up a corner of the building and had a marvelous _second window_ that every other non-corner room woefully lacked. Zidane had once mentioned that his older sibling, who he never really spoke about, was a big spender and always had to have the best things. Any other room would have been unacceptable despite Kuja's college career and rare presence in the apartment, leaving Zidane to be its only inhabitant. Fortunately for Zidane, Kuja seemed to be the one who paid the rent because Bartz had never heard his young friend complain about money problems.

Bartz twirled to a stop at the last door in the hall and pattered his knuckles across its face; he was bouncing on his heels as he waited for the door to open, part of him was thrilled to finally meet this infamous older sibling and part of him was anxious to find out what Zidane had meant in his phone message.

There was a muffled thud and Zidane yelled, "Kuja! What the hell!" And then the door swung open to reveal a tall, slender person with waist-length silver hair tipped in lavender; the girl—Bartz wasn't entirely sure, but this person was incredibly feminine—stood like a feline waiting to pounce, she stared predatorily down at Bartz with half-lidded silvery-blue eyes painted with purple makeup and then smiled slowly.

There was a long stretch of silence—stunned on Bartz's part, horrified on Zidane's, and coolly composed on Kuja's—while Bartz took in the tight jeans and skull-buckled belt and tall boots and the skin-tight t-shirt that hugged a remarkably _flat_ chest. A long, slim silver tail curled around the ankle of Kuja's left boot and perfectly manicured nails colored like blood curved over the door handle. The more Bartz looked, the more he came to realize that—_holy crud!_—Kuja was a _boy_!

"Well, well," purred Kuja in a voice that, while it was quite effeminate, was much manlier than Bartz expected, "what a brave little mouse we have here."

Zidane flailed as he picked himself up off the floor and launched himself at Kuja. Kuja tactfully sidestepped the attack and Zidane tumbled into the unsuspecting Bartz; Kuja released a laugh like tinkling bells and, before slamming the door shut, said: "Have fun on your date, Zidane. Don't stay out too late, now."

"Bitch," Zidane muttered at the door, heaved himself off of Bartz, and then helped his brunet friend onto his feet.

Bartz brushed himself off, straightened his shirt, and then grinned beatifically at Zidane. The blond was immediately wary; Bartz only grinned like that when he had something cheeky to say.

"What?" squawked Zidane, his voice squeaking in a combination of defensiveness and puberty and Bartz was reminded of how young Zidane was—only sixteen! The blond had a knack for seeming older and more mature than he actually was.

"So," said Bartz, grinning slyly, "you have a 'sister'?"

"Man, shut up, you're almost as girly as _he_ is."

Bartz sniffed as he set off down the hall, purposely exaggerating his casual walk into an extravagant strut. "At least _I_ don't wear makeup and boots to my thighs."

"Neither did Kuja," mumbled Zidane, quickening his pace to keep up with Bartz's longer strides, "until he went to college."

Bartz halted abruptly and stared at Zidane, wide-eyed with astonishment. "Your brother went to college normal and came back...like…_like that_? Oh boy, now I'm reconsidering…"

"No, no," said Zidane, still walking and Bartz started up after him, this time slowing his pace to match Zidane's. "Kuja was never _normal_, he's always had this weird thing for girls' clothing and Sephora eye-shadow… But he didn't used to lay it on so thick…and the boots are new, too. He's _different_, Bartz, I can't really explain it… It's more than the boots and the makeup; it's the way he's behaving… He's just…_different_."

Bartz puckered his lips in thought as he jabbed the down button on the elevator more times than ultimately necessary.

"D'you think, maybe…he didn't go to _college_…?"

"If he didn't go to college, then where did he _go_?"

They both stood in silence as the elevator sunk to the lobby, chewing over the presented question and wondering if there could possibly be an inkling of truth to it. Bartz stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, wrinkling his nose as his mousy brown hair tickled his face and puffing it out of his eyes. Zidane fidgeted with the hem of his shirt and his tail twitched and curled around his ankle. The air hanging over them had somehow become tense and bordered on discomfort.

The elevator pinged and the Bartz started forward at the same time as Zidane, they bumped shoulders and stumbled and then it was an awkward-contest to see who would take initiative and exit the elevator first. Finally, Bartz just grabbed Zidane's shoulder and pushed the younger boy out of the elevator before him.

Zidane grit his teeth. "Man, this is what I was talking about! We're _never_ this awkward!"

"Yeah," agreed Bartz, stuffing his hands back into his sweatshirt pockets, "I'm beginning to see what you mean. On the way here, I kept feeling like the trees were gonna eat me or something. Crazy, huh?"

Zidane grinned cheekily. "Crazier than usual."

"Ha-ha, you're so funny." Bartz unchained his bike and re-wrapped the chain around the post under the seat. "So, where're we off to now that we've been so graciously kicked out of your place?"

Zidane shrugged, "I dunno, your house? Or we could into to town, there's apparently a new coffee shop. It got Kuja's approval so it must be a fairly decent place."

"Sure, why not?"

Bartz swung his leg over his bike and stood over it to hold it steady while Zidane settled himself on the handlebars, wrapping his tail around Bartz's waist for balance and security. The two of them set off into town; Bartz wobbled a little as he got used to Zidane's additional weight and then they were zooming down the sidewalk. Bartz grinned as the wind hit his face and raked through his hair.

For a moment, everything was normal again.

They hit a more populated part of town and Bartz automatically slowed down to avoid crashing into pedestrians. Except…there _were _no pedestrians.

Zidane turned his head, giving Bartz a profile view of his face, and spoke over the wind's whispering. "Where _is_ everyone? It's nearly five o'clock, this place should be packed!"

The streets were emptier than Bartz had ever seen them; people were far and few in between and the shops they passed were virtually vacant. That heavy feeling and thickness in the air returned full force and Bartz's hands shuddered on the handlebars; the bike wobbled, the wheel caught in a crack in the sidewalk, and both boys went sprawling across the pavement.

"O-ow." Bartz flopped onto his back after having absorbed most of the fall on his shoulder and he could now feel a bump forming on the side of his head. The brunet carefully propped himself up onto his elbows and pulled his feet free of his bicycle; it wasn't damaged fortunately. "Man…I _never_ crash my bike!"

Zidane sat up and cupped a hand over the sluggishly bleeding scrape on his elbow. He glared at Bartz until the other boy realized that he was lying on Zidane's tail and rolled off of it.

"I'm telling you," said Zidane, feeling like a broken record. "Something _weird_ is going on."

"Hey, you guys alright?"

They looked up simultaneously to find the source of the unfamiliar voice: a lean brunet in a leather jacket lined in white fur with a rather bored expression that matched the bored tone of his voice. He stood over them as if someone else had guilted him into checking on them rather than doing it out of his own kindness, though a quick scan of the area told Bartz that there was no one else nearby.

"Yeah, we're good," Bartz cheerfully assured him as he picked up his bike and held out a hand to Zidane. The blond accepted the hand and hauled himself up; he pulled his tail around to smooth out the golden fur that had been ruffled uncomfortably during the fall and the boy in leather raised an eyebrow, though he didn't say a word. Then he nodded, grunted his noncommittal acknowledgement to Bartz's response, and turned and started to walk away.

"Thanks for caring!" Zidane called irritably after him and the boy waved a hand carelessly over his shoulder. "Alright, Bartz, let's go…get a latte or something."

"You hate lattes," said Bartz.

"Yeah," Zidane shrugged, "but I figure this day is already really bizarre, so I might as well just go with it."

They walked the rest of the way to the coffee shop, walking Bartz's bike between them, and found that they were uncharacteristically strained for conversation. Bartz was not liking this inexplicable change in atmosphere one little bit, it made everything awkward and not-fun-anymore.

The coffee shop—called the _Cosmos Café_—was barren when Bartz and Zidane arrived, though that wasn't anything truly remarkable, and the air still smelled fresh and new. The lack of coffee-smell permeating the air was a testament to the café's newness; with an ironic snort, Bartz noted that the shop had opened up just in time for a massive lull in town activity.

"Oh, it's you guys again."

The boy with the bored voice and bored face was standing rather boringly behind the counter and looking very bored. He had taken off his leather jacket and now sported a boring white shirt under a boring brown apron.

"Oh," said Bartz, mimicking the boy's bored tone, "yeah, it's us again."

The boy looked at Bartz with a glimmer of irritation in his bored gray eyes and his mouth stretched from its bored line to a mildly agitated frown. "Wow, you're hilarious."

"I know," deadpanned Bartz.

The boy sighed, sounding incredibly bored, and stared at the boring black register sitting dully in front of him. "So, do you guys want anything?"

"Um…is there a bathroom somewhere?" asked Zidane, pointedly lifting his elbow to draw attention to the fact that it was still bleeding sluggishly.

"Yeah, in the back, should be marked," said the boy no longer in leather and Zidane nodded his thanks as he slipped around the counter and vanished through a swinging door. The boy looked at Bartz and quirked an eyebrow at the shoulder the brunet was absently messaging. "What about you?"

"Oh, uh, I hit my shoulder…on the pavement…" said Bartz, wincing as his fingers pressed a sensitive spot. "I might've scratched it, but it's okay. Can I just have some hot chocolate, please?"

"Hm." The boy turned and, with a bored, I-could-be-doing-a-million-better-things-right-now expression he set about putting together the requested mug of chocolate beverage.

"Sooo," said Bartz, propping his elbows on the counter and resting his chin in his palms, he wiggled his eyebrows at the boy no longer in leather. "What's your name?"

"I'm not sure I should tell you that, kid."

"Kid?" Bartz scoffed. "I bet I'm older than you."

"I bet you're not," said the boring barista. "You look like you're fifteen. And a girl."

Bartz pouted. "That's the second time I've been called girly today."

The boring barista no longer in leather had an I'm-not-surprised look on his face as he placed a maroon mug filled to the brim with warm, brown liquid. "Do you want whipped cream, miss?" he asked flatly.

Bartz stuck his tongue out. "Yes, I do want whipped cream, thank you very much. So, how about this: I prove I'm older than you and you tell me your name, huh?"

The boy picked up a stainless steel canister and upended it over the mug, building a small mountain of whipped cream over the hot beverage. He was quiet for a moment as he nudged the mug closer to Bartz and put the canister on the counter behind him. Then he fixed Bartz with a flat stare and shrugged.

"Sure, whatever."

Bartz straightened up triumphantly and dug his wallet out of his back pocket; it was old and worn out and more duct tape than its original leather and had been doodled on extensively with Sharpies. Bartz pulled out the driver's license that permitted him to drive a car he no longer owned and couldn't afford to replace; he presented it to the boy with a grand flourish and a brilliant smile. The boring barista no longer in leather squinted at the card momentarily and then leaned back with an almost impressed sort of frown.

"Wow, twenty, I would've never guessed…_Bartz Klauser_."

"Hey, don't make fun of my name, you gotta tell me yours now." Bartz picked up the mug and cradled in his palms, letting the heat coming off the porcelain cup warm his hands. He sipped it carefully, testing the scalding liquid and accidentally smearing whipped cream across his nose. He hummed appreciatively; it was good hot chocolate.

"Fine. Squall."

Bartz sniggered into his next sip and further layered his nose in whipped cream. "_Squall_? Wow, and I thought _my_ parents had a weird taste in names!"

The boring barista, Squall, rolled his eyes. "You have no idea."

Zidane trotted out from the back room, a big band-aid decorated with the Justice League heroes slapped over his wounded elbow and a massive sugar cookie in hand. He sidled up beside Bartz with a grin, clearly in a much better mood, and took a large bite of cookie.

"There's this guy in the back, Laguna," said Zidane, swallowing heavily, "he gave me a band-aid and a cookie, fresh from the oven, even told me not to worry about paying for it. This is, like, the best cookie I've ever had!"

Squall sighed heavily and drummed his fingers on the counter, staring expectantly at Bartz who was scrubbing the cream from his face. It took Bartz a moment to notice and then a moment more to figure out what Squall was waiting for.

"Oh yeah, how much is this?"

"Two-fifty."

"Right-o, here ya go, Squallter!" Bartz slid the bills and a pair of quarters from his wallet before replacing it in his back pocket and then resumed his hold on the still-steaming mug. Bartz and Zidane then retreated to a table in the corner to enjoy their individual treats and brainstorm ways to keep themselves busy for the rest of the day. Boring barista Squall stood behind his boring cash register and counted the straws in the dispenser, pretending not to be listening to the only customers in the café.

When he finished his hot chocolate, Bartz collected a fistful of napkins and began to shred them with conviction—Zidane watched curiously while Squall looked on with mild pain in his eyes; he would have to clean up this mess once the boys left. Bartz paid them no mind; he was lacking a good pen and he didn't want to ask Squall for one lest he ruin the surprise. And besides, this way, he would definitely be remembered and that was always a big plus.

With the napkins thoroughly decimated and meticulously organized, Bartz sat back to revel in his hard work and admire the finished product. He was so proud of it that he felt it necessary to take a picture of it on his camera phone to forever preserve its glory. Spelled out across the face of the table in strips of napkin was a series of seven digits and two words: _'Call me.'_

"Nice," laughed Zidane, nodding appreciatively to Bartz's message as the two of them took their leave from the Cosmos Café.

"I thought so," said Bartz, glancing over his shoulder to wink at the bored barista before stepping out the door. Squall just stared back at him with a remarkably bored expression on his face.

That was when it started to rain.

* * *

**Note:** It's almost the end of summer vacation for me so I can't promise timely updates and since this is multi-chaptered, you're really gonna have to harass me if you want more. I have 5 chapters done so far and I love writing this story, but my attention span isn't the greatest.

I hope you liked this first chapter and please review!


	2. Chapter 1 :: The Fading Light

**Disclamation! **Dissidia: Final Fantasy © Square Enix.

**A/N! **Alrighty~ here's where the real action begins!

_THE MESSENGER (featuring Your Favorite Enemies) – Takeharu Ishimoto_

* * *

**The Messenger**

Chapter One :: The Fading Light

The rain seeped through Bartz's hair as he pedaled his bike down the muddy path snaking through the woods. He had just enough to momentum to keep himself moving forward, but the sooner or later the sopping earth was going suction his tires into the ground and halt his progress entirely. Bartz didn't mind—or, he wouldn't _usually_ mind—because he liked the trees when the rain the pattered across them and dripped down the leaves, it made them sparkle with a whole new sort of life and he liked that. But somehow…the trees were still leering at him like they knew something and Bartz could vividly picture them growing faces and singing, "_I know something you don't know, I know something you don't know!"_

When he finally reached home, Bartz wasted no time in taking a hot shower and changing into his warmest clothes. Checking out his bedroom window offered him a perfect view of his wide backyard and his chocobo, Boko, huddled miserably in his shelter. Poor bird, it was supposed to be hot and dry and glowing of _summer_, not this icky winter-like weather.

Bartz turned away from the window, making to exit his little bedroom, when a glimmer of white caught his eyes. Bartz turned to look at it fully and part him expected it to have vanished like a badly animated ghost in a small-budget horror film, but the vision of white remained. It shimmered at the far end of his backyard at the back gate of Boko's paddock that led out to more self-made trails through the woods and, though it was partially obscured by the heavy rain, Bartz could make out a very human-like figure. Bartz wiped away the fog his breath left on the glass and squinted at the shimmering white—it was distinctly feminine, dressed in a long, ankle-sweeping white dress with a sheer gold scarf draped around the arms. She was fairer than snow and so thin she seemed breakable; her hair was a crown of golden tresses that pooled about her exposed shoulders and the rain plastered flyaway strands to her lovely face.

Bartz scrambled to pull his sneakers on and dashed to the back door, not pausing for a second to think that he was running _back_ into the pouring rain he'd only just escaped. He grabbed an extra jacket on his way out the door and jogged across Boko's paddock, not wasting any time by going around and risking this woman in white further illness.

"Hey!" he called out, sliding to halt in front of the woman, though still on the other side of the fence. "Come inside, huh? You're gonna get sick out here."

With the jacket looped over his elbow, Bartz quickly unlatched the gate, the cool metal made slippery by the rain, and let the woman into the paddock.

"Don't worry about Boko," he said when she hesitated, looking at him with sad periwinkle eyes. "He's absolutely harmless, he won't bother us."

The woman nodded slightly and stepped carefully onto the grass; Bartz noticed that she was wearing a thin pair of gold sandals that laced about her ankles—those flimsy gladiator shoes girls were so fond of nowadays, except this woman made them seem fashionable instead of foolish. Even in the mud and pouring rain. Bartz draped his spare jacket over her shoulders and she pulled it about herself gratefully, offering a thin, somewhat forced smile.

Bartz led the woman into his kitchen and sat her down on one of the stools at the bar-style counter; she sat with the posture of a princess, made of marble and full of sorrow. Bartz immediately made use of the coffeemaker and, with a quick "Be right back," ran to fetch clean clothes for the woman to wear.

"Here," he said, placing a bundle of grey sweatpants and a blue t-shirt on the counter, "it's not much… I mean, they probably won't fit right, but at least they're dry… Um, feel free to use the shower, it's the second door over there, and the towels are in the cupboard under the sink… I can, er, put your dress in the drier if you like…"

The woman smiled at him, more sincerely this time. "Thank you, Bartz."

She drifted down the hall and disappeared into the bathroom, moments later Bartz heard the water running. He stood, stupefied, in the middle of the kitchen. _How did she know his name?_ He had certainly never met her, or even seen her from afar, before in his life. So who was this woman and…how did she know his name?

Bartz sunk onto a stool and waited, rising only when the coffeemaker pronounced the completion of the caffeinated beverages, and then returned to his stool with his mug. It wasn't completely full of coffee; it was mixed with a packet of hot chocolate mix—a homemade mocha—and a handful of mini marshmallows.

The sound of water running stopped while Bartz was rinsing out his mug and it was a few moments more until the door opened and the woman slipped out, dressed in the sweatpants and t-shirt with her damp golden hair pressed to her face. She looked healthier; the hot water had left her cheeks flushed pink, eliminating the deathly pallor that had previously haunted her. She entered the room delicately and sat quietly next to Bartz—he offered her a cup of coffee, but she politely declined.

"We have much to discuss, Bartz," she murmured, looking at him with those sad, pale blue eyes.

"How do you know my name?" he asked quietly; it was the only one of a multitude of questions churning in his head that he could put into words.

She bowed her head. "We know each other better than you realize." She sighed, sounding wistful, "But…so much has changed as of late. You are the only other one I have been able to speak with properly."

"I don't understand," said Bartz, he stood and paced the length of the counter on the side opposite of the woman. He looked in every direction except for her, everywhere except her eyes—her sad, lonely eyes. "Who _are_ you?"

She captured him before she answered his question, she captured his gaze with hers, and to Bartz it was like being sucked into an endless vortex with no hope of escaping.

"For sake of the situation," she murmured, "you may call me 'Calais.'"

Dumbly, Bartz replied, "Like the city in France?"

She giggled—the first honest reaction he'd gotten from her—and nodded her head slightly. "Yes, like the city in France."

And then she was serious again—serious and infinitely sad. God, Bartz just wanted her to _smile_; he couldn't stand to see people look so miserable and not understand why or know how to make them feel better.

"What do you remember, Bartz?" Calais asked earnestly. "What do you remember of your life?"

"What do you mean? I remember lots of stuff, like when I was little and when I learned how to ride a bike and building snow-forts with my dad—"

"That is not what I mean," she interrupted gently. "While those memories are mostly true, they have been modified to fit your situation. What do you _truly_ remember?"

"What do I…_what_?" Bartz stared at her; who _was_ this woman? She made no sense, what else was there to remember? If not his childhood, what else could she possibly be asking for? There was nothing else for him to remember!

"Think, please," Calais implored, her eyes were wide with determination and perhaps there was a tinge of fear in those pale depths. "I know you must think I am not of sound mind, but _please_ trust me. There _is_ something else to be remembered."

Bartz knotted his fingers through his hair; he was usually pretty laidback and willing to go with the flow, but this was just too bizarre. "Listen, lady, I don't know what you mean! I don't understand what you're asking me to do!" Bartz groaned and sunk to the floor, out of her sight, leaning against the lower cupboards just on the other side of the counters. He brought his legs up to his chest, rested his elbows on his knees, and threaded his fingers through his hair. "…I'm sorry."

Calais sighed, evidently giving up, and dropped her eyes to her hands in her lap. "It is alright. Truthfully, I did not expect so much of you so soon… I only hoped…"

Bartz, when things were brought up that were too difficult for him to wrap his mind around, had created a sort of inner storage unit where he tucked away everything he didn't want to think about. Calais's words went straight into that storage unit.

The woman stood abruptly and shuffled about Bartz's kitchen, searching the drawers for a pen and notepad—Bartz didn't stop her, he didn't particularly mind. When she found was she wanted, she set out scrawling across the paper with quick, smooth strokes; occasionally she paused to scribble in the corner: evidence of a dying pen. Finished, she capped the pen, ripped the paper free of the pad, and walked silently over to Bartz. She kneeled gracefully before him, her face was crafted into a carefully blank expression, but her eyes were still unbearable to look into.

"Please," she said, holding out the paper to the boy on the floor. He took it quietly and looked it over—a list, numbered one through ten in Roman numerals, of names he didn't know. "Find these people. When you have found them all, gather here and I will meet you. There is much to be told."

"Wait a minute…" Bartz looked over the list a few more times—he _did_ recognize a few of these names. Right there, next to a slender 'V' was his own name and the 'VIII' was followed by Squall Leonhart, that barista from the café, and directly after, listed as 'IX', was Zidane Tribal. "Zidane…and Squall… What's this all about?"

"Please," Calais repeated. "Please just trust me; so much depends on these ten warriors."

"Warriors…?"

"I cannot guarantee they will be easy to find," Calais continued, as if Bartz had never spoken, never questioned her choice of word, "but I can direct you to the first on the list."

Bartz consulted the aforementioned list: _I ~ Warrior of Light_.

"Who…?" he started to ask, but Calais pressed on.

"He is at Order's Sanctuary General Hospital, in the permanent resident's ward on level five, room five-oh-nine," she recited the information with earnest, as if it were some kind of lifeline to her, as if it was the exact location of a long-buried jewel worth millions of gil. "Find him first; find any of the others in whatever order becomes convenient or apparent, but find the Warrior of Light first."

Bartz blinked at her, unable to come up with a way to respond—he was so beyond trying to make sense of this that he gave up and just nodded along. He wanted to go to sleep and not wake up for a very long time. Suddenly, he was simply exhausted—mentally and physically. Calais was making his head spin with her riddling way of speaking and her bizarre requests and her Warrior of Light who didn't seem to have a real name… It just didn't make any sense.

Part of him wished he was just having some insane dream, that that hot chocolate he'd gotten from the café was affecting his dreams and causing him to see all sorts of crazy things—he was fairly certain he that would see a pig fly past the window at any second now.

When no swine-like creature beat its wings, Bartz sighed and just shook his head.

"Yeah, all right. Tomorrow I'll go pick up Zidane and we'll ride my bike to the hospital two towns over and find this Warrior of Light character," he mumbled, only partially sarcastic. "What was it? Level five, room five-oh-five?"

"Five-oh-nine," corrected Calais, thoroughly delighted and apparently unable to catch on to the bitter edge in Bartz's voice. She smiled fondly at Bartz, like a mother being shown the stick-figure family her kindergartener had drawn at school. "Now rest, Bartz," she insisted, "the hour is late and I can see that you are tired. You will need all your strength for the days to come."

As if on cue, Bartz yawned widely and barely managed to cover his mouth with his hand to prevent his coffee breath from blowing in Calais's face—that would have been horribly rude of him and ultimately unpleasant. He stood and stretched while Calais rose gracefully to her full height; she was much taller than him, Bartz realized, even though she was barefoot and he was still wearing his sneakers.

"My room is the door right across from the bathroom…you can sleep there," said Bartz. "I can show you to the train station tomorrow…or at least help you get to where you need to go, 'kay? I'll just…get some blankets and sleep on the couch…"

Bartz stumbled into the conjoining living room and pulled up the lid on a chest that served part-time as a table. The blankets were woolly and a little bit scratchy, but they were bearable for one night and undeniably warm.

"I would not dare to take your bedroom," said Calais. "I will be just fine here."

"You sure?" asked Bartz, blinking sleepily at the pale woman.

She smiled, thin and melancholy. "I insist."

Bartz was too tired to argue, he had had a long day, and so he grunted his consent, bid the lady goodnight, and then stumbled off to his room. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

* * *

When Bartz woke up the next morning, it was because his cell phone was ringing wildly in his pocket—he'd never changed before getting in bed and, as a result, the sheets were slightly damp—and sunlight was streaming onto his face from the window with its still-open curtains. Bartz grumbled and fumbled to pull his phone free of his jeans.

"'Lo?" he mumbled, rolling onto his back and throwing his other arm over his face to block out the light.

"Gah! Finally! Man, I've called, like, fifty times now, sheesh."

"Good morning to you, too, Zidane."

"Morning? Ha. It's one in the afternoon, Bartz."

Bartz rolled over to stare dimly at the clock on his bedside table, sure enough it read _1:07 PM_. Bartz groaned and replaced his hand over his face.

"Man…last night was weird… I'm still trying to decide if it was all some crazy dream or not…"

Zidane laughed. "What'd you '_dream_' about? Fields of chocobos and a never-ending supply of mocha? I think that might be a fantasy, Bartz. Sorry."

"Ha, I wish," said Bartz truthfully. "No, some lady showed up in my backyard… It was weird though, she seemed so…_sad_."

"Sad how…?"

"Not sad like _wow you're pathetic_, but sad like…like the entire world was crashing down around her and she had no hope of making it out alive…"

"Who's this lady…?"

"She told me to call her Calais."

"Like the city in France?"

Bartz laughed, "Yeah, that's what I said!"

Zidane only chuckled quietly, so Bartz cleared his throat and kept talking. "She gave me this list of people and told me to find them…she told me that _'so much depends on these ten warriors'_ and then didn't explain what the heck that meant! But Zidane…that Squall guy from the café was on the list. And so were we."

"…And you're not sure if this was a dream or not?"

"No…it felt really real, but it was too weird."

Bartz rolled of his bed and ambled out of his room—his mind was set on finding the coffeemaker and brewing himself a mug of mocha. Yum. _Mocha_. He almost didn't notice the two slips of paper left on the counter.

"Hold on…" he said faintly, picking up the first note.

_Bartz~_

_I thank you for your hospitality, you were most generous and I greatly appreciate all that you did for me. I hope your search will not be too difficult, but sadly I cannot promise that you and your friends will be entirely safe throughout this endeavor._

_Memories can be dangerous, so please try to remember everything._

_The best of luck,_

_Calais_

The second piece of paper was the list of ten, with the precise location of the first scrawled next to his name.

"Bartz…? Hey, Bartz? You still there?"

"Zidane…meet me at that café, will you?"

"Uh, sure, Bartz. Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, just meet me A.S.A.P."

Bartz snapped his cell phone shut and jammed it into his pocket; he promptly forgot the coffee he had planned to make and left the house without changing out of yesterday's clothes. Suddenly, the events of last night were all too real.

* * *

"So…the Warrior of Light and the Onion Knight," said Zidane, reading over the list for the third time. "It'll be a blast finding those two…though your lady-friend, Calais, was kind enough to tell us where to find this Warrior-guy."

"Yeah, and she's sort of expecting us to go find him today," said Bartz, leaning back in his seat after taking a long drink of hot chocolate, compliments of Squall.

"Oh?" said Zidane, smothering a smirk. "We gonna ride your bike to the hospital two towns over or something?"

Bartz dropped the front legs of his chair back to floor with an almighty _thud_ and grinned broadly at Zidane. "That's _exactly_ what I said and y'know what Calais said to me? She thanked me and told me to rest up for the trip."

"Seriously?" Zidane laughed. "This lady sounds like a nut-job."

"I know," chuckled Bartz, "but I think we should at least check it out… I mean, it couldn't hurt. The worst that could come of it is us visiting some stranger in the hospital."

"But that's what we're aiming to do in the first place," said Zidane. "Isn't it?"

The brunet frowned thoughtfully and nodded. "Huh. I suppose, yeah. But still, that leaves us at _how _we're gonna get to"—he consulted the list—"_Order's Sanctuary General Hospital_. I kind of _don't_ want to ride my bike…"

"Do you guys need a ride somewhere?"

They looked up to find the boring barista, Squall, lingering near their table—Bartz nearly toppled out of his chair; when had Squall moved? He considered scrambling to cover the list, but quickly realized there would be no use in doing so. Not only were Squall's gray eyes already fixed upon the curling handwriting, but also Bartz would have to confront the barista about it anyway. Squall _was_ on the list after all.

"What's that?"

"Uh-hum…" Zidane tapped his toes, trying to come up with some form of sane response to Squall's question, but Bartz knew such a thing was impossible. "Nothing…?"

"Bullshit," said Squall immediately. "My name's on that list. What's it for?"

"How about…" Bartz said slowly, thinking his words through, "you give us a ride to the hospital in whatever fancy car I am sure you drive and we'll tell you everything about this list…?"

Squall stared at them for a moment, looking predictably bored, and then shrugged and nodded rather reluctantly. "Sure, whatever."

* * *

Squall owned a faded blue Toyota that had clearly seen better days; nevertheless, the journey to the hospital went by quickly. Squall drove, naturally, and Bartz, being the oldest of the three, had called shotgun for the round trip; Zidane, the youngest, was immediately sent to the backseat. The forty-five minute drive was spent explaining the bizarre visit Calais ("Like the city in France?" Squall had asked) had paid to Bartz and her equally if not more bizarre requests. The bored barista took in the entire story with a flat expression and foot on the gas pedal; he didn't speak until he had parked his car in the visitor's lot behind Order's Sanctuary General.

"I guess I'll go along with it," said Squall. "This might tie in to why things have been weird around town lately. You never know."

Then Squall exited the car and waited only long enough for Bartz and Zidane to follow suit before locking it and striding towards the automatic front doors.

"Awesome," chirped Bartz, skipping up to Squall's side. "So, exactly _how_ do we get in to seeing a patient we know absolutely _nothing_ about?"

Squall gave Bartz a peculiar look. "You expect me to know?"

"Well…_yeah_," said Bartz. "I mean, 'cause _I _have no idea!"

Squall sighed and rolled his eyes and walked right up the front desk. The receptionist smiled sweetly at him and, predictably, Squall didn't smile back—though he didn't _glare_ at her either, so Bartz assumed this was as close to a friendly demeanor Squall was capable of getting. Bartz and Zidane looked on with interest as Squall set in motion what was sure to be an ingenious plan to get them into the room of the mysterious _Warrior of Light_…

"I'm here to visit a friend of mine, he's in room five-oh-nine," said Squall, sounding perfectly polite and entirely unsuspicious. "Is there an elevator nearby, I can never seem to find it."

"Of course, honey," beamed the receptionist, "the elevators can be a bit tricky to locate. There should really be a sign, huh?"

Squall nodded and smirked a little in good humor.

"The elevators are just around that corner over there." She pointed beyond Squall's shoulder. "Just past the restrooms."

"Thank you," said Squall and he set off in the designated direction, pulling Bartz and Zidane along with him as he passed. "Come on you two, was that really so hard?"

Bartz decided not to respond to that.

The elevator entertained its three passengers with the tinkling notes of classical music, muffled under the babble of a blond and a brunet.

"I wonder what his condition is," mused Zidane, bouncing on the balls of his feet as the elevator rose lazily past the second floor. "Maybe he's got cancer, or maybe he just happened to have gotten into a car crash by the time Calais found you."

"No, she said he's a permanent resident, so he's prob'ly been here for a while now," said Bartz.

"Maybe he's an intern or a doctor…?"

"Nah, she gave a room number, he's gotta be a patient."

The elevator pinged merrily and the trio stepped out in the sterile white hall of level five. Bartz looked up and down the wide corridor, taking in the numbers on the walls to determine which way to go. A couple of nurses strolled by, Bartz politely side-stepped them as he took the initiative to go left and followed the decreasing numbers to the door simply labeled '_509_.' There was a slot in the wall where nurses and doctors left clipboards with pages of notes and statistics—or so Bartz imagined; he didn't really know how this place operated, so to speak.

He passed the threshold with trepidation and Zidane close on his heels.

The room was bare of any personalization, just whitewashed walls and a chair tucked away in the corner. The head of the bed lay under the room's only window, blinded with thin white shutters, and its occupant was just as pale as the décor. His silver hair pooled beneath his head in dull ribbons and his lips were thin and chapped. His eyes flickered beneath his lids, but he was otherwise motionless. The pallor of his skin matched the eggshell color of his cloth shirt—a luxury only the long-term patients could enjoy—and the thin blanket that was pulled halfway up his stomach.

Tubes disappeared beneath tape on his right arm and the wires connected to a heart monitor slid like snakes across his chest and beneath the collar of his shirt. The only sound in the room was the unobtrusive beeping of the aforementioned monitor.

The patient looked young; he couldn't have been more than eighteen, maybe nineteen, and he seemed so small in the wide hospital bed, confined between the white plastic railings. He was also incredibly thin; his face was gaunt and his arms were like twigs. Whatever had happened to him, it had left him drained and weak, teetering on the edge of ill health.

"So," said Zidane quietly, almost afraid to break the stillness of the room, "I guess we found the Warrior of Light…"


	3. Chapter 2 :: Enter the Fourth

**Disclamation! **Dissidia: Final Fantasy © Square Enix.

**A/N! **I'm sure you all realize exactly _who_ Calais really is, but fear not, there is a reason she asked Bartz to call her by a different name. And in this chapter: the first villain makes an appearance, woo!

_THE MESSENGER (featuring Your Favorite Enemies) – Takeharu Ishimoto_

* * *

**The Messenger**

Chapter Two :: Enter the Fourth

His left hand was curled into a tight fist and Bartz could see a glitter of gold in the tiny space between his palm and pinky finger. He was holding something. Driven by instinct, Bartz set about prying his hand open and ignoring the baffled stares of his friends.

"Bartz, the hell are you—?"

"He's holding something…"

"So, let him hold it!" exclaimed Zidane, rushing around to pull Bartz away from the comatose patient. "It's probably something special to him."

"Or it could be what Calais wants us to find here," countered Bartz.

"You never mentioned Calais wanting us to find anything other than the people on the list," said Squall, eyes narrowing.

"Well…why would Calais send us here to look at a coma patient if he wasn't holding something significant? Otherwise we'd be coming here just to leave again and that seems like an awful waste of time."

Zidane paused, stilled holding Bartz's hands away from the coma patient's clenched fist, and then shrugged and let his friend go. "Seems reasonable to me."

"When he wakes up and gets pissed at you guys for messing with his stuff, I'm telling him I had nothing to do with it," said Squall darkly.

"Technically," said Zidane, pulling up the chair in the corner and sitting in it backwards, "that's lying. You're watching us and not even trying to stop us from messing with his stuff. That makes you an accomplice, Squallo."

"Don't call me that," snapped Squall. "And it's not like he'll know if I'm lying or not, he's in a coma."

"_Man_, for an unconscious guy, he's _really_ strong!" yelped Bartz, still trying desperately to prize the young man's fist open. Then he added as an afterthought, "I hope I don't leave fingernail scratches or anything on his hand…that would be suspicious."

"Lord Squallium," began Zidane, rising from his chair theatrically. "Noble Squallium with your awesome car and ability to sneak us into a stranger's hospital room, might you use your impressive skill to open this fair maid—_man's_ hand?"

"Nice," deadpanned Squall, his stare flatter than ever before. Nevertheless, he nudged Bartz out of the way and peeled the patient's fingers apart with ease. Bartz quickly plucked the item from his palm and held it up for all to see: a tiny blue crystal on a long, golden chain. It was utterly unassuming as far as jewelry went, but Bartz—and surely Zidane and Squall as well—could feel some kind of…_power_ emanating from it. The room was immediately filled with its presence and the beeping of the heart monitor sounded like a thundering drum, though the rhythm of the patient's heart didn't change tempo in the slightest.

Bartz looked down at the supposed 'Warrior of Light' and was startled to find that his eyes were open. They were the same pale blue as Calais's and just as sorrowful—but something was different about the patient's. While Calais's sadness seemed intangible and inexplicable, the patient's was with solid reason—he _knew_, he _remembered_, exactly why he was sad and exactly why there was no hope. And Bartz realized: _this is why she wanted me to find him first_.

The Warrior of Light possessed the knowledge they needed on whatever quest Calais had in store for them. The Warrior of Light remembered whatever it was Calais wanted them to remember and it had put him in a hospital. The last line of Calais's note, left in her absence, resounding in Bartz's head.

"_Memories can be dangerous, so please try to remember everything."_

Bartz shuddered to think what sort of memory could be so potent that it forced a healthy man into such a state of deep unconsciousness.

As he watched, those wide, pale eyes blinked once, twice, and then slid shut once again as if the man had not stirred. Zidane and Squall never noticed a thing.

"We should go now," said Bartz faintly; he tucked the necklace away in his pocket and the presence in the room immediately dissipated. "Come on. We still have six other people to find, we should get started on that."

"Yeah," agreed Zidane, still blinking in wonderment, "and I doubt they'll all live in conveniently nearby areas…"

Squall ducked his head once in agreement and made for the door. His hand stretched out to grasp the knob and just as he was about to open the door, it swung open as if of its own accord. Squall stumbled back immediately, falling in line with Bartz and Zidane, and the trio watched with wide eyes as the most terrifying doctor they'd ever seen in their young lives entered the room. He was tall and lean with a complexion of ash and golden hair, tipped with purple, which swept nearly to his ankles. His white coat was open in the front to reveal an unashamedly golden button up and black slacks that disappeared into a pair of lavish golden boots with ridiculous heels. He sneered down at the trio with curled purple-stained lips and narrowed yellow eyes shadowed with magenta.

"Friends of the patient, I presume?" said the doctor. His voice was regal and self-assured; he sounded too arrogant to give a damn about the well being of others.

"Er, yup," said Bartz, forcing a bright smile. "We've known him for years, we go way back."

"How nice." The doctor's tone suggested that he thought just the opposite.

"We were just on our way out," Squall informed the man, not _impolitely_ but not particularly _polite_ either. "So we'll get out of your way now."

Squall grabbed Bartz's wrist in one hand and Zidane's in the other and dragged the two boys unceremoniously from the room. He gave the doctor a curt nod as they hurried past, but was sure to keep a steady _walking_ pace until they'd cleared the doorway and were a few feet down the hall.

"Now, _run_," hissed Squall and they did without question.

Bartz didn't dare look over his shoulder as Squall released his wrist, he just did as he was told and burst into a sprint. The hall was mercifully clear as they bolted for the elevator, but that did nothing to speed up the lift's progress as Zidane repeatedly jabbed the call button in a panicked frenzy. Bartz now hazarded a look back and paled drastically when he saw the golden doctor striding towards them with fury written across his effeminate face. There was an aura about the man, an aura that made Bartz want to curl up in a corner and cry—this man was no good.

And he wasn't a doctor either.

Finally, the elevator arrived and the trio tumbled into the safety of its confines; Bartz stabbed the button for the lobby and the doors slid shut just as the enraged "doctor" came within earshot.

"_This is not _over_, miserable insects_!"

The elevator lurched into motion and a tinny imitation of classical music filled the claustrophobic space. It was a while before anyone dared to speak.

"I don't think that was a real doctor," said Zidane quietly and Squall gave him a severe no-kidding type of look.

"Do you think…" said Bartz, thinking before he spoke for what was probably the first time in his life, "that maybe…he wanted the necklace…?"

Squall nodded thoughtfully, "Could be; that's no ordinary necklace."

"Oh, man," groaned Zidane, leaning heavily against the wall. "What have we gotten ourselves into?"

* * *

The Cosmos Café had become a sort of meeting place for Bartz, Zidane, and Squall, because Squall worked there and because Squall's father owned the establishment. But mostly it was because the place was always empty due to the serious lull in town activity. The boys had even pushed two tables together to form a work area of sorts where Bartz spread out a map of the town and its neighboring cities. In red Sharpie, he boxed Order's Sanctuary General and wrote a little Roman numeral one next to it to show the Warrior of Light's location. Bartz had similarly boxed Zidane's apartment, put a box in the green shaded space that symbolized the woods for the rough location of his cottage, and marked down the Cosmos Café. The map was primarily focused on their hometown, Rift, but it showed enough of its neighbors to help the boys get around should the need arise, which it most likely would.

"Okay," said Zidane, resting his chin on his woven finger having just finished another (free) sugar cookie from Laguna. "So who's next on the list?"

By an unspoken understanding, the boys had decided and agreed to not mention the frightening man at the hospital. No one knew what to make of him or why he have could possibly been there impersonating a doctor and they weren't sure if they _wanted_ to know.

Bartz consulted the aforementioned list. "_II ~ Firion_. No last name, so that's no good."

"Maybe someone else on the list knows him?" suggested Zidane. "I mean, it's possible. _We're_ on the list and _we_ know each other."

"Hopefully that'll be true for others as well," Squall agreed from him post behind the counter.

Bartz nodded and looked back at the neat rows of curly handwriting. "_III ~ Onion Knight_. Again, that's no good; this one doesn't even have a real name. _IV ~ Cecil Harvey_."

"Great, a real name," said Zidane, "Now how do we _find_ him?"

Squall abruptly disappeared into the back room and returned a few moments later with a laptop under his arm. He pulled up a chair at the head of the table and booted up the computer without saying a word. Bartz and Zidane looked on in curiosity.

"What was the name again?"

"Cecil Harvey," said Bartz, "H-A-R…V-E-Y."

Squall typed the name into the Google search engine and waited patiently for the computer to process the request. It didn't take very long and Squall turned the computer around for Bartz and Zidane to see.

"He apparently runs a small business from his home."

"Squall, you're a genius." Bartz threw his arms melodramatically around the barista's shoulders and planted a loud kiss on his cheek. Unfazed, as he was apparently used to these kinds of antics from his _father_, Squall shrugged Bartz off of him and rose to retrieve a pen and paper from behind the counter. Once he'd copied down the address, he snapped the laptop shut and replaced his apron with his leather jacket.

"Come on, let's go see him."

Without so much as a word of warning to Laguna, Squall palmed his car keys and led the way to the parking lot with his usual monotonous expression.

Though the journey to Cecil Harvey's residence wasn't exactly a ten-minute drive, Lunar Subterrane ("Has anyone noticed how _bizarre_ the names of our towns and cities are?" Zidane remarked) was a far easier drive than yesterday's haul to Order's Sanctuary General. Once again, Squall drove his faded Toyota and Bartz called shotgun for the round-trip and Zidane was stuck in the back seat, much to his chagrin.

The directions MapQuest had provided directed them to a pleasant residential area where the sidewalks wove through small fields of lush, wavy grass and a posh tennis-and-swim country club. It was like a small, old-person community, which gave Bartz little hope for the age of Cecil Harvey, particularly since it was three o'clock on a summer day and he had yet to see any type of youthful activity.

Crawling at the demanded speed limit of twenty-five (Bartz had never seen so many speed-limit signs in one place in his life), Squall eventually peeled around a ridiculously generous corner and into a long cul-de-sac. MapQuest informed them that Cecil Harvey lived in the house at the very end. As they parked in front of the supposed house, which had the names "Harvey & Highwind" written plainly on the mailbox, Bartz abruptly voiced the question no one had thought to ask.

"So…what's our plan of action?"

"Uh…" Zidane sat back in his seat, stumped, and Squall's only response was to turn off the engine and sit in contemplative silence.

"We're gonna depend on you, Squallium," said Bartz truthfully. "So far you've come up with all the best solutions."

"Why am I not surprised?" the boy muttered rhetorically as he undid his seatbelt and exited the vehicle. Bartz and Zidane grinned and followed suit; bouncing on Squall's heels as he led the way up the little pathway to Cecil Harvey's front door. The house was small and accommodating; it appeared to have only one level and perhaps a small yard in the back. A shiny hybrid car sat contentedly in the driveway, winking in the afternoon sunlight, and a little wooden hutch stood on the tiny front lawn under an opened window. Bartz resisted the urge to peer into the hutch and find out what kind of animal was inside, although it seemed to be empty from his standpoint.

Squall rang the doorbell once and then stepped back politely as he waited for an answer.

"What if he's not home?" asked Zidane.

"He is," said Squall. "Car's in the driveway."

"What if a friend picked him up or maybe he walked? This town looks tiny enough…"

"He's home," reinstated Squall, "I can hear footsteps in the house."

Sure enough, the door swung open a moment later and a tall, broad-shouldered man with a blond ponytail and unreadable hazel eyes greeted them. He stood in a pair of well-fitting jeans and a tight black t-shirt that showed off how muscular he was, but the fact that he was in his socks suggested he'd been lazing around before the doorbell had rung.

"Can I help you?" he asked, startling the trio with how _deep_ his voice was.

"Yes, we're looking for Cecil Harvey," answered Squall without missing a beat, he didn't even falter when the blond's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Yes…?" prompted the man, making no move to invite them inside or even try to be a tiny bit polite. Bartz exchanged a disconcerted look with Zidane; _this_ was Cecil Harvey? The website Squall had found hadn't offered any sort of clues as to what its founder looked like, it had only explained that Cecil worked from home as a private fencing instructor, owned several pet rabbits, and enjoyed cooking in his off-time. By all means, the website had made him seem like a pretty harmless guy. This blond man staring down at them now was intimidating and rather cold; he didn't seem like a bunny-person or any type of animal person for that matter.

"All right, well," Squall said somewhat awkwardly, racking his brain for words, "you see, this will sound really strange, but my friend here"—Bartz smiled brightly and waved, to which the blond man only stared stonily—"was asked to find you by a woman named Calais."

The man quirked an eyebrow, his first real expression, and asked plainly, "Like the city in France?"

"Yeah, like the city in France," confirmed Squall. "Do you know her?"

"Not at all," said the man. "Now, if you would please—"

Before he could finish his dismissal, a second figure emerged from within the house. This one was perhaps a few inches shorter, but just as muscular, his hair was a gleaming white-silver and he wore a more relaxed attire of dark gray sweatpants and a loose white shirt. In one hand, he casually brandished a long, tapering foil and in the other he held a grubby red rag. He didn't appear to notice the trio on the doorstep right away as he addressed the blond directly.

"Kain, where's that jar of polish I bought yesterday?"

The blond half-turned to look at the other man and smirked in amusement. "Did you take it out of the car when you got home?"

The other man furrowed his brow and puckered his lips in thought. "Damn…must be the second time I've done that this week…"

"Third actually," said the blond, chuckling slightly. Whoever this other man was, the blond liked him much more than he liked the boys on his doorstep.

The other man opened his mouth to retort, but stopped when he noticed said three boys on the doorstep. "Kain, why didn't you _tell_ me we had guests? Don't just make them stand there, let them in!"

Kain sighed and stepped aside, silently inviting the trio inside, and directed them towards the sofa in a neat little living room. They sat somewhat awkwardly and Kain stood nearby, unsure of what to do, as the other man excused himself to put his foil away. He returned moments later and plopped down in a chair across the coffee table from the trio and smiled brightly. Bartz felt relief wash over him as he realized that _this_ man—this smiling, happy man with silver hair—was Cecil Harvey and _not_ the stern blond that was now standing like a sentry behind Cecil's chair.

"So, what can I do for you?" asked Cecil pleasantly.

"They say someone asked them to find you," answered Kain, before Squall could open his mouth. "Someone called Calais."

Cecil frowned slightly. "Like the city in France?"

"Yeah," said Bartz, seizing the opportunity to speak up. "She never really told me exactly what was going on, but she was really insistent that I find these ten people. Here."

Bartz pulled the list from his pocket and passed it to Cecil over the coffee table; the silver-haired man scanned over the list and then looked at Bartz with a glimmer of uncertainty growing in his bluish-purple eyes. If he recognized any of the names on the list, he hid his reactions well.

"We know how this might seem," said Zidane, "and we were skeptical at first, too, but yesterday…" He glanced at Bartz and Squall, unsure how to proceed.

"We found the first one on the list yesterday," continued Bartz. "He was holding this…" Bartz carefully removed the necklace from his pocket and held it up for Cecil to see; that same presence immediately surged forth and flooded the room. Judging by the looks of awe on the faces of Cecil and Kain, they both felt it, too. "Someone pretending to be a doctor nearly attacked us to get it. Something is going on…and Calais knows what it is and she knows that we're somehow a part of it."

Bartz returned the necklace to his pocket and the presence receded. Cecil wordlessly handed the list back to the boy and slouched in his seat; Kain placed a hand on his shoulder.

"What do you expect me to do?" Cecil asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"We're not…sure," Squall admitted. "Calais wants us to gather these people and then she'll come to us…"

"So you want me to go with you," said Cecil, his face unreadable. "To where? For what reason? How am I supposed to believe you when I don't even know you?"

"Please, Cecil, we don't really know what's going on either—" Bartz started.

"Then why are you following the demands of a woman you clearly do not know?" Cecil demanded, his voice raising in volume and quavering slightly, though from anger or fear, it was hard to tell. "Have you not thought that maybe she is planning something terrible? Maybe she is leading you on for her own selfish gain? I can't go with you. I can't just leave because you say that a stranger wants to meet with me for some unknown, probably _made-up_ purpose."

"But Cecil—"

"_No_. I'm sorry. Really, I am, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave." Cecil sighed heavily and fixed Bartz with a half-apologetic look. "It'd be best if you didn't come back."

Defeated, Zidane and Squall rose to their feet, but Bartz was determined to make one last attempt to sway Cecil.

"One more thing, just hear me out!" he pleaded and when Cecil remained tight-lipped, he pressed on. "Let me give you my cell number. Weird things have been happening, whether they relate to whatever Calais thinks is going on or not. Even _you_ have to admit that the air feels thicker. So, if something strange _does_ happen, will you let me know?"

Cecil didn't speak for a moment, and then he dragged himself to his feet and disappeared into the other room. Bartz took this as a sign of defeat and trudged after Squall and Zidane to the door; Kain remained where he was, watching them with inscrutable eyes to ensure that they left.

"I'm sorry to have bothered you," murmured Bartz to Kain, as Squall opened the door.

"Hold on." Cecil hurried back into the room, a pen and pad of paper in hand. "You seem like good kids, so I suppose I could give you the benefit of the doubt."

Bartz managed a real smile as Cecil handed him the pen and paper and scribbled down his name and number. "My name's Bartz, by the way, I guess I should've introduced myself earlier. This is Zidane and that's Squallium."

"_Squall_. Just Squall," corrected the barista sharply.

"Thanks," said Bartz, ignoring Squall in favor of giving Cecil a grateful smile and returning the pen and paper. "I know this is all really crazy, but…I dunno. I believe Calais and…when I spoke to her, it was like we'd already met…"

Cecil just nodded and said quietly, "Goodbye, Bartz."

"Bye, Cecil."

* * *

The drive back to the Cosmos Café was quiet, broken only by the low murmur of the radio and the whir of the car's tired engine. Bartz, upon arrival at the café, took out his map and marked down Cecil's home with a box and his corresponding Roman numeral. The three boys sat around the table in thoughtful silence, each with a cookie, compliments of Laguna, and some form of cool beverage.

"Well," said Bartz, finally breaking the spell of silence, "that didn't go as well as I'd hoped…"

"At least he didn't shut us down _completely_," offered Zidane, in attempted to alleviate the situation. "You gave him your number, that's something."

Bartz nodded.

"So who else is there?" asked Squall.

"_VI ~ Terra Branford_," read Bartz. "You…you don't think Cecil may be right…do you?"

"Nothing he said was without reason," conceded Squall, "but you said yourself that you believe Calais and that it seemed like you'd met her before. You're the only one who has spoken directly to her. If you believe her, then that's all you should need."

"Gee, Squallo, you should write motivational posters for a living," mumbled Bartz, though he admittedly did feel better. All of the doubts and second thoughts that Cecil's words had planted in his mind were sent away to that little filing cabinet of the things he didn't want to think about.

* * *

**Note: **My summer vacation is officially over and school officially starts tomorrow (today was orientation) and all this means that updates probably won't be as quick as they have been. I won't stop writing or posting this story so long as there is someone who wants to read it and I'll try my best not to forget it completely between all my intensive schoolwork and equestrian team practice. Thanks to the people who have kept up reading so far and left me such nice reviews, you guys are great!


	4. Chapter 3 :: The Forces of Nature

**Disclamation! **Dissidia: Final Fantasy © Square Enix.

**A/N! **I'm supposed to be writing an essay right now, but I'm totally stumped on how to start, let alone what _topic_ to write about. Essays shouldn't be this hard for me; I'm a goddamn _writer_! Essays are what I _do_. Ugh. Anyway, here's another chapter as a result of my procrastination. It wasn't gonna post it so darn soon, but…I'm avoiding an essay, which is something I strongly recommend _against_. Remember that kids, _do your homework in a timely manner! Don't be like Astrum, because she's not always so smart!_

Anyway, here ya go, and this time I can guarantee that'll it'll be a while before chapter four makes an appearance. Mostly because of schoolwork and equestrian (my horse's name is Peanut, he's so cute!) and partially because I'm simultaneously working on a sequel to "The Between Space" (go read it, it's awesome). Enjoy and please review!

_THE MESSENGER (featuring Your Favorite Enemies) – Takeharu Ishimoto_

* * *

**The Messenger**

Chapter Three :: The Forces of Nature

Bartz's mind was a million miles away as he biked through the woods to his house.

Their efforts to locate Terra Branford had so far been miserably unsuccessful—Squall's people finding search engine had been unable to find a direct match and had insisted that the person they were looking for was Tina Bradford, a sixy-year-old "cat whisperer." So, not knowing how else to continue the search for Terra, they had moved on to the seventh name on the list: Cloud Strife. Apparently, there was nothing special about Cloud Strife either because the search engine had come up with even _less_ results than it had with Terra. After Cloud, there was only one other name on the list and it was another mononym. Tidus.

Zidane had sat mouthing the name to himself several times over, trying to remember why the name sounded so familiar, until it finally clicked. He had met Tidus briefly in his freshman year of high school at a swim meet; Zidane had only gone because his friends were going to show their school spirit and Tidus had been the undefeated breaststroke champion. Zidane had told them that he and Tidus had, perhaps, exchanged ten words total, including the expected "Hello my name is…"

With this small victory, the boys planned on driving to the only other high school in Rift's academic district, because, if Zidane remembered correctly, the school had a summer swimming program. And if Tidus was still the fish he used to be, he would definitely be there.

Of course, mere seconds after figuring all this out, Squall mentioned that he, as a patron of that same school, had recognized the name when he'd first looked over the list, but didn't say anything because hadn't been entirely certain. For the first time in his life, Bartz had felt the urge to hit something out of sheer frustration.

And then they had agreed to meet back at the café the next day at eleven and called it a night. After dropping Zidane at home, Bartz took off down his wooded path and immediately regretted turning down Zidane's offer to stay the night.

The trees were leering at him again. Their hollow faces seemed to grin darkly down at him while their roots made ruthless grabs at the wheels of his bike. The wind whipped through their branches, filling the woods with their terrible screams and sending razor-edged leaves snapping across his face.

Bartz grit his teeth and pressed onward, determined to make it home; there was no way he was letting a bunch of stupid, old _trees_ scare him off. It would take way more than that to get him to back down.

A few yards ahead, a particularly massive oak tree shuddered visibly and Bartz's bike careened out of control as its roots pulled themselves from the ground. The oak tree then lifted its trunk from the soil and lurched down the path towards Bartz. Bartz, in a total loss of control, jammed the front tire of his bike into the V-shaped base of another, smaller tree. The wheel was bent horribly and stuck fast.

"Crud, oh crud, oh crud," cursed Bartz, trying to force his bike free. When the oak tree rumbled closer, Bartz gave up and hurled himself away from his bicycle just as a thick branch whipped down over the seat, crushing the bike.

"_Crap_!" Bartz took off back the way he'd come, stumbling on the rain-slicked path, and made a desperate break for Zidane's apartment. The sun was setting and Bartz had only the dying light of twilight to guide him, but that was all he needed, especially when he could hear the groaning movements of that evil tree approaching behind him.

The wind howled around him; the sky began to spew a steady drizzle of rain and the thin branches of the surrounding shrubbery snatched at the legs of his pants. Bartz couldn't escape the path fast enough, couldn't block out the monstrous groans of that tree soon enough. The sounds and the sensations followed him as he sprinted onto the concrete sidewalk and spilled a steady flow of adrenaline into his bloodstream. The wind continued to scream as he fell onto the doorstep of the apartment complex and he could barely stop his hand from shaking long enough to press the call button for Zidane's apartment.

"Yes, who is this?"

"Kuja!" Bartz gasped, too desperate to care that Zidane's older brother was snotty and purposefully difficult. "Kuja, let me in!"

Bartz could still hear the oak tree groaning, though he didn't dare look back to check if the sound was real or just in his head.

"Not with that sort of attitude," snapped Kuja, predictably annoying. "Scamper off now, little mouse."

"Damn it, Kuja! _Let me in_!"

The intercom only crackled lifelessly in response, Kuja had cut the connection.

"No!" Bartz punched the button in once more; the rain was sleeting now and hail was stinging against his cheeks. "Kuja! Zidane! _Somebody_!"

And then, by a miracle, the lock buzzed—the most beautiful sound Bartz had ever heard—and Bartz threw himself at the door, flinging it open. He bolted down the hall and hurled himself into the elevator the moment the doors slid open wide enough and jabbed the third floor button repeatedly. The elevator was too slow, the groans of that tree _still_ echoed in Bartz's head and he could _still_ feel the sting of the wind and rain on his face and the grabbing hands of the shrubs on his legs.

When the elevator doors slid open once again, Bartz threw himself out into the halls and found himself caught up in a pair of familiar arms. Bartz couldn't control himself any longer; he gasped and sobbed into Zidane's secure embrace and allowed the shorter blond to half-drag, half-guide him back to the apartment. He was barely aware of Zidane shuffling him through a doorway or of Kuja looking on with a crease in his brow, he was only aware of Zidane settling him down on the sofa.

"You all right, Bartz?" Gentle hands grasped his shoulders. "Bartz? Hey, Bartz. Look at me, _look at me_."

Bartz managed to open his eyes and look at Zidane through tear-saturated lashes, still hiccupping and shuddering as the adrenaline leaked slowly from his system. Zidane's face was the epitome of worry as he thumbed the tears from his friend's cheeks.

"Aw, hell," whispered Zidane, pulling Bartz against his chest; there was little more he could do than rub Bartz's back soothingly and wait for him to calm down. Bartz, himself, couldn't think beyond the feel of Zidane's t-shirt bunched in his fists and the steady hands that were smoothing up and down his back. The monstrous groaning had finally subsided and wind's howling had receded to background noise, muffled by the sanctity of the apartment walls. Eventually, Zidane's back started to grow sore, as he was holding up not only his own weight, but Bartz's as well. The blond eased himself and Bartz back so that he was lying on the couch with the armrest as a pillow and with Bartz's slim body partially on top of his.

Outside, the wind was howling and the hail continued to thunder against the rooftop. The light of twilight had died completely and the moon's silvery glow was not nearly strong enough to hold the velvety darkness at bay. The elements had lost their fury and had since subsided to a haunting sort of lullaby—this was the music that urged both Zidane and Bartz into a deep, dreamless slumber. And it was the image of peace and comfort that the two created that urged Kuja, before retiring to his room, to spread a warm blanket over their sleeping forms and then click off the overhead lamps.

* * *

Bartz opened his eyes to the rumpled blue field of Zidane's t-shirt and the younger boy's arms securely wrapped around his midsection. It took a moment for his sluggish mind to recall exactly _why_ and _how_ he'd gotten himself into this particular position and when the memories came surging back, Bartz groaned quietly and hugged closer to Zidane.

"You awake…?" he heard Zidane ask carefully, sounding as though he'd been conscious for some time now.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Though I kinda wish I was still asleep…"

Unconsciously, Zidane raised a hand to pet Bartz's hair comfortingly; he was completely unfazed by the way his older friend was hugging so closely to him.

"You wanna talk about it?"

"You'll laugh."

"Man, you came charging into my apartment in a full blown _fit_! I thought you were _dying_! I haven't seen you cry in _years_ and last night you were nearly uncontrollable you were sobbing so hard. Whatever caused that is _not_ something I'm gonna laugh at, believe me."

Bartz sighed and mumbled into Zidane's shirt.

"What was that?" Zidane shifted to that he could peer down into Bartz face.

Bartz swallowed roughly and repeated himself a little louder, "It was a _tree_." He groaned and pushed himself up into a sitting position. "Man, it was goddamned _tree_! I was biking home and right there in front of me, it just picked up its roots and came at me!"

Zidane propped himself up on his elbows and fixed Bartz with sympathetic blue eyes. "Well, it was really windy last night—"

"This was _before_ the wind started," Bartz interrupted quietly. "Even so, it was a _big_ tree, an oak, and those things are _solid_." Bartz felt his eyes prickling again and, frustrated, quickly scrubbed them dry with his sleeve. "What time is it?"

"Oh, uh…" Zidane, understanding the need to shift the topic of conversation, twisted around to peer at the clock on the table behind him. "Almost nine."

"I need to go home and feed Boko…"

"I'll come with you," Zidane volunteered immediately. "Just let me get my shoes."

"Kay…" Bartz sat quietly on the sofa while Zidane, after shooting him one last concerned glance, hurried to his bedroom. Barely a second later, Kuja appeared and placed himself gingerly on the armrest farther from Bartz. For a moment, it seemed Zidane's strange older sibling was content to sit there silently, but then he fished a note from his pocket and passed it wordlessly to Bartz. The brunet accepted it, too surprised to think otherwise, and waited for Kuja to offer some form of explanation.

Kuja only shrugged. "There's much more going on here than just the forces of nature." He rose fluidly and glided to the small kitchenette; he paused in the doorway and glanced at Bartz over his shoulder, smirking. "Besides, my little brother likes you; it would comfort me to know that you are taking proper care of him."

Kuja vanished just as Zidane reappeared and Bartz had no time to wonder how much Kuja really knew about what was happening. Bartz stood and stumbled as a flash of vertigo protested his sudden movement; Zidane steadied him immediately and his hand didn't stray from Bartz's lower back as they exited the apartment. Bartz clutched the now crumpled note in his hand and allowed himself to be guided out of the complex by his smaller, younger friend and he wondered how they were going to get to his house.

"Where's your bike?" asked Zidane when they reached the sidewalk outside the building; he was looking expectantly at the bike rack, which was completely barren.

"I had to ditch it," Bartz told him hollowly. "It got smashed."

"Er, then I guess we're walking…" said Zidane, he sounded unsure but determined nevertheless.

Bartz stuffed Kuja's note into his pocket and allowed Zidane to continue leading him along. He felt like a blank canvas; he didn't know what to think or what to do other than to just blindly follow Zidane. Until last night, everything had seemed so easy: find the people on the list, talk to Calais, end of story, everyone can go home. But it wasn't that simple, was it? Bartz had never really given any thought to _why_ he was gathering these people except that a peculiar and vaguely familiar woman had asked him to. It had seemed unreal, like a harmless little adventure, like nothing bad would actually happen. Even that strange man pretending to be a doctor at the hospital hadn't _really_ phased him; just a weirdo, nothing to it.

And then, it had all struck home. A freaking _tree_ had picked itself up out of the soil and tried to _attack_ him. Something undeniably_ bad_ had happened and suddenly everything Calais was sad about seemed all too real. This wasn't some fun adventure; this was the real damn deal. Something big was going on; something bigger than him, bigger than the town—hell, _bigger than the whole world_ was going on and somehow it all connected to Bartz and the people on that list. And not just them, either! Kuja knew more than he was letting on. And that man in the hospital most _definitely_ knew a thing or two about something! _But what_? What knowledge did they possess that was so…potent, so dangerous, so powerful that it drove them to such extremes as a characteristic one-eighty or the need to impersonate a doctor to steal from a coma patient?

"I don't think I can do this, Zidane," Bartz whispered suddenly.

The blond stopped abruptly and looked at the brunet with a deep crease in his brow; they were standing only a few yards from the wood's edge.

"What do you mean? Everything's less scary in the daylight, we'll be fine…" But Zidane suspected that Bartz was not referring to the trees.

"Whatever's going on is… It's bigger than any of us…weird things aren't happening. _Dangerous_, universe-stopping things are happening. I can't… I don't… I'm _scared_, Zidane; I can't do this…I-I _can't_."

Zidane bit his lip and looked at the ground. "I don't know what to say, Bartz… I mean…I know how you feel. I'm kinda terrified, too…but I have this _feeling_ that if we keep going forward…everything'll be okay. Y'know?"

When Bartz couldn't respond, Zidane encompassed his hand in both of his—Zidane's hands were a little wider than Bartz's, though Bartz had always had rather delicate features. Zidane gently tugged him on and began their slow progress through the woods.

"C'mon, Bartz, everything _will_ be okay. You'll see." The pair trudged onward, making slow, determined progress through the trees. Bartz tried to force his doubts back into that imaginary filing cabinet and instead focused on keeping his breath steady and on keeping the memory of that tree at the very back of his mind.

Sooner than Bartz expected, they came upon a knot of twisted metal jammed into the base of a tree—the pitiful remains of Bartz's bike. Zidane let out a low, impressed whistle.

"Wow, you weren't kidding when you said it got smashed."

Bartz reached out and gently touched the mangled handlebars, his hand searching for and failing to find the familiar grooves worn into the handle. The fabric over the seat was ripped into strips and the foam padding within was spilling out. The wheels were severely bent, the rubber was shredded, and their original shapes were beyond recognition. There was nothing salvageable about Bartz's bike. It had been completely destroyed.

"Holy _shit_…"

Bartz looked sharply in Zidane's direction to see whatever had caused his uttered curse. Zidane was standing on the edge of a small crater, filled sparsely with clumps of soil and loose rocks. The crater marked a distinct gap in the woods that could only be filled by another tree, of which there was no evidence. It was as though the tree had picked itself up and walked away.

Zidane looked at Bartz with wide, horrified eyes—clearly, he believed Bartz's impossible story now. He had been willing to go along with it before, but now he truly _believed_ it.

"C-Come on, man, let's keep going."

"Yeah," mumbled Bartz, nodding numbly. He took Zidane by the hand and the two of them hurried on down the path. After that, they came to an unspoken agreement to stay strong, move forward, and always be there for each other.

* * *

The smell of chlorine was strong and the sounds of splashing and jovial yelling filled the air within the confines of the indoor swim center. Somehow, Rift's only other school—Dream's End High—was about two times wealthier than the school Zidane attended—Crystal World ("Yeah," Bartz had said abruptly, "our town is full of _weird_ names."). Nevertheless, it was easy to pick out which member of the water polo team was Tidus, despite the near unbearable noise. He was the bleached blond currently dominating the pool, clearly the contributing factor to his team's incredible lead in the scrimmage. He was grinning widely and whooping and hollering to his teammates on both sides of the mock game, tossing out helpful tips and compliments on good catches or throws. In any other person, this may have been seen as obnoxious, but somehow Tidus managed to remain friendly and helpful.

Bartz, Zidane, and Squall retreated to the bleachers to watch and wait for the practice to end before they cornered Tidus. In the meantime, someone else in the audience—actually, he was the only other person there who wasn't a parent or the coach—caught Bartz's attention. He was lean and lightly tanned, probably around seventeen, with warm caramel eyes and steely silver hair pulled back into a long ponytail on the nape of his neck. He lounged in the bleachers in a pair of loose slacks and a fitted blue t-shirt and he watched the scrimmage with an amused half-smirk on his face.

Bartz nudged Zidane sitting next to him and nodded subtly towards the silver-haired boy.

"What about him?" said Zidane under his breath, confused.

"Doesn't he seem a bit familiar to you?" asked Bartz.

Zidane didn't answer right away; he squinted at the boy, his expression that of deep concentration, as he took account of how he was feeling. Then he nodded.

"Come to think of it, I got the same feeling from Cecil," he said. "It's like we've met before, but…I _know_ that we haven't…"

"Exactly."

"_Ro-osebu-ud_!"

The obnoxious yell echoed horrendously throughout the vast room, but no one seemed phased in the slightest—clearly this was a common occurrence. Bartz watched as the steely-haired boy shrunk in his seat, his face turning beat red, and then hauled himself almost reluctantly from the bleachers. Tidus—the apparent source of the shout—clambered out of the pool and snagged a towel off a nearby bench before jogging up to the boy and shaking out his bleach blond head in the boy's face. "Rosebud" cringed and endured it.

"Do you _really_ have to call me that?"

"Yes, I do, now sit tight while I go change." Tidus winked and then dashed off to the locker rooms, leaving a jokingly exasperated "Rosebud" standing on the pool deck. Squall then moved in for the metaphorical kill.

"So, how do you know Tidus?" Squall asked casually.

"Rosebud" shrugged, "We've been friends for a while, I met him halfway through freshman year and he hasn't left me alone since. D'you know him?"

Squall gave a halfhearted one-shoulder shrug. "Not really, I've seen him around at meets, but that's it really."

The two lapsed into a companionable silence that bordered on awkward. Then Squall, putting up a convincing show of just remembering, stuck out his hand and said in his usual monotone, "I'm Squall."

The steely-haired boy smiled and took Squall's offered hand easily. "Firion."

_Firion_? Bartz shot Zidane an excited glance. _Firion_, Roman numeral two! They'd found him. Bartz and Zidane bounded up to Squall's side and quickly (but politely) introduced themselves; when Firion repeated his own name, Bartz made a small sound of recognition.

"Firion…? You wouldn't happen to know anyone named Calais, would you?"

Predictably, the first thing out of Firion's mouth was, "Like the city in France?" and then his expression darkened slightly and he said in a lower voice, "Is she tall, dressed all in white, long blonde hair?"

Bartz nodded.

"Yes, I've met Calais." The tone of his voice suggested that his meeting with Calais hadn't gone so well and Bartz feared this would cause some trouble. "She kept urging me to remember, _remember_, because everything in my past had been 'modified to fit my situation' or some such nonsense. She seemed convinced that my life was some kind of lie and that, in order to set things right, I had to find a bunch of random people. Can you believe that?"

"Kind of," said Squall and, when Firion gave him an incredulous stare, continued: "Bartz here was also approached by Calais, she gave him an actual list of people to find."

Realizing his cue, Bartz pulled out the list—he'd taken to just carrying it around with him, along with the Warrior of Light's strange necklace—and handed it obediently to Firion. Firion pursed his lips as his narrowed brown eyes swept over the ten names.

"Aside from you, Zidane, Bartz, and Tidus, I know some of these people…" Firion paused, brow furrowing in confusion. "Actually…all of these names are a little bit familiar, though I have no idea where I would have ever met someone called _Onion Knight_."

Squall opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he'd planned on saying was interrupted by Tidus's exuberant return.

"More suitors, Rosebud?" he teased, nudging his friend's side jokingly.

Firion rolled his eyes and responded flatly, "You're just jealous because I have more admirers than you."

"Ah," Tidus clutched a hand melodramatically over his heart, "you wound me, Rosebud."

Firion barely responded and returned his attention to the list in his hand. "I know Cecil Harvey, I take fencing lessons from him, and Cloud Strife is probably one of the most depressing guys in the world—"

"Cloudo?" Tidus laughed. "Oh yeah, he's a downer for sure, but he's a decent enough guy beneath it all."

"So…what exactly is this about…?" Firion asked suspiciously.

"It's about Calais," Bartz admitted, no need to beat around the bush when Firion had already encountered the mysterious woman in white. "Don't tell me you didn't get the sense that you'd met her before, I've been getting that feeling a lot lately with perfect strangers."

Firion bit his lip for a moment, his gaze flickering between Bartz's face and the names on the list, and then he sighed heavily and handed the slip of paper back to the brunet.

"You're right," he said at last, "but I still don't believe her or really trust her at all."

"Hey, man, that's totally fine," said Zidane, a small grin forming on his lips. "That's basically what Cecil told us yesterday. How about you just take Bartz's number and give us a call if anything weird happens, kay?"

"Weird as in…?" prompted Tidus.

"Well…I kind of got attacked by a tree last night…" mumbled Bartz. "I think that counts as weird…"

"Er, right…okay." Firion wasn't exactly sure how to respond to that so he just nodded and took the card with Bartz's cell phone number on it, promising to keep in touch if necessary. Bartz had come to realize earlier that day that he was becoming a sort of focal point for this entire operation and so he had made cards with his number on it, seeing as his was the one they had taken to passing out. This was much easier than scavenging for pen and paper and a lot quicker, too. Though on this particular occasion, he'd only brought one card because he hadn't expected to run into anyone else on the list aside from Tidus, but no matter, Tidus and Firion were close so both were likely to end up with the number programmed into their respective phones one way or another.

"Well, I don't mean to be rude, but I think my old man's waiting for me and he's been real touchy lately… I don't want to see what he'd do if I kept him waiting," said Tidus apologetically. Bartz nodded understandingly; he, Zidane, and Squall turned to take their leave but not before the bored barista spoke up one last time:

"Before we go…" said Squall, "will you tell us where to find Cloud Strife?"

* * *

**A/N:** I feel like this story is going by really fast…do you guys think the pace is too fast? Let me know, because that's my biggest worry about this story. Is the story going so fast that it doesn't take the proper time to appreciate other aspects of the plot?


	5. Chapter 4 :: Means of Transportation

**Disclamation! **Dissidia: Final Fantasy © Square Enix.

**A/N!** This took way longer than I expected, my brain was being oddly resistant to writing this chapter. I'm sorry I made you guys wait so long, but thank you for (hopefully) being patient with me! It's starting snowing here, so naturally everything has gotten twice as difficult (like horseback riding, holy _crap_! My horse is fluffy and warm, but trying to lead him through snow and wind to the arena is hell.). _Ahem_…

Also, I've been reading The Tempest; I freaking love that book and I'm so freaking pumped for the movie to come out in December. _So freaking pumped_! It was a bit difficult to write about Bartz and Zidane and chocobos when my brain is so fixated on Ariel and how fantastic he is and how he "boarded the king's ship. Now on the beak, / Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin, / I flamed amazement…" and yeah… Three guesses who my favorite character is!

_THE MESSENGER (featuring Your Favorite Enemies) – Takeharu Ishimoto_

* * *

**The Messenger**

Chapter Four :: Means of Transportation

For the first time since starting their mission, Bartz, Zidane, and Squall met up at Bartz's little cottage in the woods; it was a Sunday and Laguna had closed the Cosmos Café. And so with their usual meeting point unavailable, they had decided to gather at Bartz's. Besides, Bartz had exactly what they needed to get in to see Cloud: a chocobo.

According to Tidus and Firion, Cloud Strife was a veterinary technician at Planet's Core Animal Hospital, specializing in large animal care, and he especially enjoyed working with chocobos. So when Bartz had happily told Squall that he had a pet chocobo, a plan was formed to use Boko to hold Cloud's apparently short attention span long enough to talk to him. The plan was absolutely perfect until they realized that, while Bartz did have a suitable trailer to transport Boko, they had no car with the appropriate equipment to pull it.

Squall had driven his little blue Toyota to Bartz's house regardless and then the boys had sat down in Bartz's kitchen and brainstormed ideas.

"Do you have whatever it is we need to attach the trailer?" Zidane asked Bartz.

"Nah," said Bartz, "the ball-attacher-thingy was on the bumper of my old car and getting a new one costs a ridiculous amount of money that I _don't_ have…"

"Random question," said Squall suddenly. "If you have as little money as you imply and no apparent job, how are you in _school_? And how are you not homeless?"

Bartz shrugged. "I'm actually _not_ in school…I decided not to go to college right after high school, so I took a year off…and then I took another year off… And I'm not _broke_, I'm _saving up_."

"Whatever," Squall muttered, Bartz's answer was apparently sufficient enough and the bored barista switched right back to the more pressing matter at hand. "So how're we getting Boko to Planet's Core?"

"Well…the trailer's out," said Zidane, "We have no way to _use_ it."

Bartz pouted thoughtfully and wandered over to peek out the back window. The afternoon sky was simply overcast and Boko was enjoying this rare break in the rain. The large bird ruffled his feathers and pulled at the grass with earnest, eyes narrowed in contentment. As Bartz watched his closest animal companion he came to realize that Boko wasn't really that big…big enough for him to ride, sure, but _small_ enough to fit, say, in the back of a car… Perhaps even a faded blue Toyota…

Bartz turned slowly on his heel, a grin growing on his face, and he fixed Squall with his most pleasant expression.

"Hey…_Squallium_."

Squall's eyebrows knit together in wary suspicion. "No. Whatever it is, no."

* * *

"Oh, yeah!"

Bartz rolled down his window in the back seat (his idea had resulted in his demotion from shotgun, much to Zidane's enjoyment) and stuck his hand out to let it glide through the wind. He heard a happy sigh and felt a weight settle in his lap; he lowered the hand still inside the vehicle to pat Boko's narrow head and ruffle his golden feathers affectionately. Boko seemed thrilled to finally be getting out of his pen for the first time since the start of the summer and, despite now being confined to an even smaller space, the excitement was clear in his eyes.

"I swear to God, Bartz," growled Squall, his knuckles white around the steering wheel, "if he makes a mess in my car, _you're_ cleaning it up!"

"Sure thing, Squallo!" cheered Bartz, too happy to care that the barista was more than a little annoyed. Squall just huffed and continued to glare out the windshield.

"So," said Zidane abruptly, holding up a fist, "there's me, you, and Squall." He extended his first three fingers accordingly. "We've found Cecil"—his pinky joined the first three—"and we've found Firion and Tidus." He stuck out his thumb and raised the index finger on his other hand.

"And the Warrior of Light," reminded Squall; Zidane added another finger.

"And we're on our way to talk to Cloud," chirped Bartz; Zidane responded accordingly. "So that just leaves us to find Terra Branford and the Onion Knight…"

"Do you think that…maybe this has been going along a little _too_ smoothly?" the blond asked slowly, returning his hands to his lap. "I mean…aside from the, er, tree incident and that creepy guy at the hospital…nothing seems as bad as it should be. Didn't Calais go on about how it wouldn't be easy to find them and that the danger would be great?"

"Yeah, she did make it seem like some perilous journey," agreed Bartz. "But you're right. We've got pretty much everyone…once we get the last two it'll just be a matter of gathering them together and so far the only one who seems like he'll give us the most trouble is Cecil…"

"Don't jinx it, Bartz," warned Zidane, only partially teasing.

"No worries, I have my good luck charm!" Bartz produced a sleek yellow feather from seemingly nowhere and held it aloft, as if beholding the world's most precious gem.

Squall snorted softly and only the tiniest bit derisively. "Yeah, well, we might need it. We're here."

Bartz stuck his face out the window and took in the pristine white building and the little wooden barn hugging to its side and the wide welcome sign at the parking lot entrance. The place looked innocent enough; it gave off a sweet, homey feel and the doors hummed open invitingly. However, there was no way of hiding the sickly smell of antiseptic that possessed all hospitals, human and animal alike.

Boko, after popping cheerily out of the backseat and loyally trotting at Bartz's shoulder, balked upon detecting that dreaded hospital scent. The chocobo gurgled pitifully and tugged backwards, suddenly trying to escape his lead line with the sort of desperation of a caged tiger. Warbling and resisting, Boko shot Bartz looks of panic and betrayal, to which the brunet bit his lip and steadfastly ignored.

"C'mon, Boko," he urged, "you're only here as bait…"

"_WARK!"_

The chocobo ruffled his feathers and planted his feet. Zidane, in an effort to help, pushed on Boko's side while Bartz gently tugged him forward, hoping to off-balance the oversized bird and give him no choice but to move forward. It almost worked, but somehow Boko managed to pull the slack from Bartz's hands and made a dash for Squall's Toyota. Unfortunately for the chocobo, the owner of said Toyota blocked his path and grabbed the ring around his beak in one swift, blurred motion. Squall gathered up the slack in his other hand and, in an impressive show of strength, pushed his shoulder against Boko's and turned the bird around. Squall, retaining his vice like grip on the chocobos halter, walked the rigidly resisting bird towards the door of the animal hospital and solemnly ignored Bartz and Zidane's awed whispers of "_Squallium: Chocobo Whisperer_!"

Still guiding the upset chocobo, Squall marched right up the front desk and told the shocked receptionist, "We're here to see Cloud Strife, is he available?"

"Um…" the receptionist recovered swiftly and tapped away at her computer, "he's actually busy right now, but if you'll just…have a seat, he'll be out in a moment."

"Thanks," said Squall; he turned against Boko as he retreated to a row of seats and handed off the lead line to Bartz as he passed the other brunet. Bartz took the line automatically and replaced Squall's hand with his under Boko's beak.

"Jeez, Squallo," said Zidane, perching on the chair next to the barista, "you're like…a superhero, or _something_."

Squall shrugged nonchalantly. "It's called common sense."

Zidane's response was to stick out his tongue and watch in amusement as Bartz tried to hold onto a bird that was roughly twice his size and strength.

True to the receptionist's words, a few moments later a woman cradling a very bored-looking dog emerged from a door behind the desk, followed shortly by a…_short_ man with very distinct, gravity-defying blond hair. The man was incredibly petite and his features were decidedly feminine, but none could deny that the broad set of his shoulders was distinctly masculine. His eyes were an electric blue and his skin was very pale, his expression could only be described as mope-y and he altogether _looked_ like a gloomy person.

He fit Firion's description of Cloud Strife to the letter.

Cloud exchanged a few words with the receptionist, he handed her a clipboard and she nodded in Squall's direction. Cloud turned to look at them for himself and the second his eyes landed on Boko, Bartz knew they had this meeting in the bag.

* * *

"So," Cloud said in his glum monotone, "there's nothing actually wrong with your chocobo…"

Bartz grinned and shook his head.

"You just wanted to use him as…bait?"

Bartz grinned and nodded.

"Because you wanted to talk to me?"

"Exactly," said Bartz, still grinning.

Cloud's mouth puckered into something dangerously like a pout. "Why didn't you just ask the front desk to see me? You didn't need to drag this poor chocobo all the way out here just to talk to me."

Squall looked positively murderous—in his utterly bored, can't-be-bothered-to-move kind of way. Bartz's grin stayed in place, though it definitely lost its cheer. "Damn…I did not think of that."

Cloud rolled his eyes and fed Boko a chocobo treat.

Zidane rocked onto his heels and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "So now that we've determined how dumb we are, what do you say, Cloud? D'you believe us?"

The spiky-haired vet tech scratched the chocobo's thick plumage thoughtfully for a moment while Bartz, Zidane, and Squall waited anxiously (though Squall would be hard-pressed to show it). And finally, he spoke in his depressing monotone, "No."

"_What_?" gasped Bartz.

"This whole thing sounds ridiculous. I don't believe you."

There was a brief moment of silence while Bartz, Zidane, and Squall chewed over this new bit of information. Then Squall rose abruptly from his hard plastic chair, stuck a hand in Bartz's pocket (ignoring said brunet's indignant yell), and pulled out a slip of paper with Bartz's cell phone number scrawled across it.

"Here," said Squall, shoving the slip into Cloud's hand. "Feel free to call if something weird happens."

Cloud didn't verbally respond, he just ducked his head and passed Boko's lead line back to Bartz, who took it and smiled brightly at the vet tech. "Talk to you later, Cloud-ster!"

* * *

The drive back was silent. There was nothing to be said. Squall dropped off Bartz and Zidane at Bartz's cottage and then left immediately to disinfect the backseat of his car. Bartz returned Boko to his paddock while Zidane marked down the animal hospital on their map with Cloud's Roman numeral and made himself a sandwich.

"So I've been thinking," said Bartz, kicking his shoes off at the back door and plopping down next to Zidane at the bar-style kitchen counter.

"Uh-oh," Zidane replied without missing a beat.

Bartz stuck out his tongue, but continued nevertheless. "This whole thing has been going so well and so smoothly, that I think we can afford to take a break. Calais didn't give me a time limit; she said this thing was super important, but she didn't give me any sort of deadline."

Zidane chewed his peanut butter and banana sandwich thoughtfully and then chased it down with a gulp of milk. "I guess," he said slowly, "but don't you think it's still a good idea to do this as fast as possible?"

"Definitely," Bartz agreed immediately. "I was thinking that we could take this break to get me a new car, then it'll go even _faster_ because both Squallo and I will be able to drive around and find people."

"Well, that's great," said Zidane, staring at his brunet friend with a solemn expression. "But how are _you_, Mr. I'm-Not-Broke-I'm-Saving-Up, going to afford to buy a _car_?"

"A used car, Zidane, a _used car_," Bartz corrected, as if that made all the difference in the world. Zidane just rolled his eyes and polished off his sandwich.

"Whatever, man," he said. "But how are you going to _get_ there without your bike? Ride Boko?"

"While there is no law against that," Bartz pointed out reasonably. "I think Boko's had enough excitement for today. I was actually hoping you could sweet talk Kuja into giving us a lift. Doesn't he have a car?"

"Yes," Zidane replied stiffly, "but I don't think it'll be that easy to getting Kuja to do anything for us."

"You never know until you try," Bartz chirped optimistically and pushed the house phone in his blond friend's direction. Zidane rolled his eyes and made a show of looking utterly exasperated, but he took the phone nevertheless.

"You owe me," he grumbled, dialing his older sibling's number and bringing the speaker to his ear. Bartz smiled sweetly and batted his eyelashes, the picture of innocence. Zidane grumbled to himself, and then perked up as Kuja answered his call. "Hey, Kuj, will you do me a massive favor?" The blond scowled. "Yeah right, 'college work,' all you ever do is sit around and paint your fingernails. – Gee, _thanks_. – Shut up. You're such a prick. – _And _a hypocrite!" Zidane shoved the phone down onto the receiver and glared at it, as if hoping the waves of hate his eyes were radiating would somehow transmit to Kuja.

"Um…" Bartz spoke up hesitantly. "So what did he say…?"

Zidane looked up from glaring at the phone and shrugged casually. "He'll be over in a couple minutes to give us a ride into town."

"Awesome," the brunet said carefully; Zidane's communication skills with his brother were beyond astounding.

* * *

Sure enough, Kuja pulled up in Bartz's driveway only ten minutes later and before Bartz's had time to wonder how Kuja knew where he lived, Zidane was pulling him impatiently into the back seat. The silver-haired man grumbled the entire time and continuously sent irritated glances at Bartz and Zidane through the rearview mirror. But for all his complaining, Kuja offered to pick them up later if they were in need and then drove away before either could give him a definitive answer.

Zidane chuckled as he watched Kuja's shiny red car disappear down the road. "He gets embarrassed about showing affection."

The pair headed off into town, towards the only car dealership in the area: Pandaemonium Car Place. Pandaemonium was a tall, window-walled building with just enough room inside to fit a small office and two used Priuses. The lot outside was relatively the same size as any grocery store parking lot and half as full. The owner of Pandaemonium was a jovial old man who sold cars like they were candy and always did so with a smile and a great deal. Bartz was confident that one of the many spiffy Priuses in the lot would soon be in his driveway.

Bartz and Zidane approached the Car Place with optimism and confidence, both choosing to believe that Bartz's "college savings" would be enough and that the jovial owner would take pity and give them a really super good deal. Both were crushed when they noticed the printer-paper sign taped to the front door that read: "UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT."

"Crap," said Bartz.

"Maybe…he passed the business along to his equally-nice-if-not-_nicer_ grandson?" Zidane suggested with weak optimism.

They entered the lobby and Bartz took in the sight of the new manager standing next to his desk, as if he had been expecting patrons. The man was tall, _very_ tall, and he was pale, _very_ pale. He was wearing a mostly-unbuttoned white shirt as though he didn't really _want_ to wear it but was required to. He also wore a long leather jacket, tight leather pants, tall leather boots, snug leather gloves, and had silver hair that went to the backs of his knees.

Bartz and Zidane took one look at this man and promptly fled the premises.

* * *

**A/N:** This chapter's not quite as long as the others…but like I said, my brain was oddly resistant to writing it and more focused on Ariel whispering thoughts into peoples' heads… On a completely different note, out of general curiosity, around what age/what level of school do you guys think I am in?


	6. Chapter 5 :: The Lost and the Forgotten

**Disclamation! **Dissidia: Final Fantasy © Square Enix.

**A/N!** Thanks everyone for all the support and patience while I take _forever_ in preparing the next chapter, hopefully it hasn't been so long that you've all lost interest… I even wrote two extra pages to make up for the last chapter being two pages short! Also, I'm predicting a pick-up in the pace of posting (say that five times fast), because I've been re-inspired by the new adds for Duodecim~ Kain's in it (I refuse to spell his name with a C) and the trailer has this fantastic little scene between Bartz, Zidane, Squall, and _Kuja_! Now if only I knew what they're saying…!

A little heads-up for this chapter: big-time shipping, but it's not 5x9…you might find it a little bit startling.

_THE MESSENGER (featuring Your Favorite Enemies) – Takeharu Ishimoto_

* * *

**The Messenger**

Chapter Five :: The Lost and the Forgotten

(Also Known As: The Worst Game of Phone-Tag Ever Played)

Bartz and Zidane didn't stop running until they reached the Café. It was still closed, of course, and there was no one there to let them it, but it was a sufficient distance from the Pandaemonium Car Place to make them feel safe enough to stop. Zidane hit the stucco wall with a shoulder and somehow managed to slide down its rough surface to the pavement. Bartz followed him down, but without grating his shoulder, and pulled his knees to his chest.

"I can't…" gasped Bartz, wheezing to catch his breath, "even _begin_…to explain…how freaking scary…that guy was."

Zidane just shook his head, unable to speak at all. Bartz reached over to a put a hand on the younger boy's shoulder and squeezed comfortingly. They sat like that for countless minutes, simply trying to breathe and calm their racing hearts. Then Bartz slid his cell phone from his pocket and handed it wordlessly to Zidane. The blond accepted it immediately and punched in the number to his apartment. The volume on the phone was always a bit too loud and this time Bartz was sitting close enough to hear the other end of the conversation.

"_Hello?_" Kuja responded after the second ring.

"Will you come pick us up, please?" Zidane asked quietly, still breathing a little too quickly to be convincingly calm.

There was the sound of muffled rustling through the phone and then Kuja replied testily, "_Right now?_ _I'm a little busy_."

"Please, Kuja…?" Zidane trailed off to listen to the continued rustling and the indistinct murmur of another, much deeper voice; Zidane frowned. "Who're you talking to?"

"_No one_," Kuja said, slick and casual, "_just call someone else. What about your boring friend? Can't he pick you up? You should call him._"

Zidane glanced at Bartz, who shrugged and shook his head rather helplessly. Zidane grimaced, "I don't…think we ever got Squall's phone number."

"_Idiot_," Kuja replied shortly. Then he gasped and there was a definite thudding sound—the sound of someone dropping a phone onto carpeted floor—and then Kuja's agitated yell rang clearly through the receiver, "_Stop _doing_ that_!"

The yell was followed by a burst of deep laughter and a gruff voice responding, "_Then get off the damned phone already_."

Bartz and Zidane, both immensely confused, listened to the crackling of the phone being picked up and held against a pant leg as Kuja addressed the stranger on the other end. The voices were unintelligible and garbled by the pressure of the telephone receiver on Kuja's skinny jeans, but the conversation didn't last very long.

"_Sorry, little brother,_" Kuja was practically purring,"_you've caught me at a bad time_—"

"Bad time?" yelped Zidane. "We just _saw_ you, like, _fifteen_ minutes ago!"

Kuja pressed on as if Zidane hadn't spoken. "_So I'm afraid I must hang up now. Try getting a hold of your boring friend. Goodbye_."

The line went dead.

Zidane snapped the phone shut and swore under his breath. "Bitch!"

"What a jerk," grumbled Bartz, stuffing his cell phone back into his pocket.

There was a pause in which both wordlessly decided neither felt any need to know, or even wonder, what Zidane's older brother had been doing. Then Bartz groaned and raked a hand through his hair.

"Now what do we do?"

Not a second later, Bartz's phone began to ring.

* * *

Kuja stared at the lifeless telephone in his hands, curling his manicured fingers absently over the cold plastic and worried. He didn't like worrying. Worrying was something for the weak and Kuja _was not_ weak. He would _never_ be weak. Yet…here he was. _Worrying_.

"Why so glum? I thought I did pretty good," said his companion, sitting on the sofa behind Kuja, voice gruff in his optimism. "A real upcoming actor. Hell, I could be in movies."

"Your performance was…commendable," Kuja said dully. He tossed the phone carelessly onto the counter, wincing as it clattered across the marble countertop, and wrapped his arms insecurely around his midsection. _He hated feeling so weak_. "Thank you."

"Humph." The springs in the sofa cushions creaked tellingly and Kuja listened to the carpet-muffled footsteps of his companion's approach. "I think you could use a repeat performance, but let's make it real this time."

Broad arms looped around Kuja's waist and rough lips pressed repeatedly against the crook of his neck. Kuja absently tilted his head to allow his companion better access, but still he could not be distracted. His partner made his way up Kuja's neck and trailing butterfly-light kisses all the way to the spot behind his ear. When Kuja failed to respond, the taller man stopped his ministrations and stepped back, tugging Kuja around to face him.

"Really, now, what's the matter with you? Was my acting really so terrible?"

Kuja managed a dry snort to show his amusement and shook his head, "_You_ were fine, very convincing even, but I wonder if I could've mentioned Squall at least once more… My little brother isn't known for his outstanding intelligence and neither is his friend—"

"Kuj, I think if you'd mentioned Leonhart one more time, he would've gotten suspicious. Does Zidane even know that you know anything about his friends? I mean, aside from the overly-happy one, of course."

The silver-haired man just sighed and went to sit heavily on the couch. "I don't think Bartz has even read the note I gave him. If he had, I'm sure he would've approached me by now." Kuja rolled his eyes. "Knowing that one, he's probably forgotten all about it."

His companion flopped down next to him and wrapped an arm around snugly his partner's slim shoulders.

"You're over-thinking this," he said. "Bartz is a bit of a dumbass, true, and so is your kid brother. But _Leonhart_, however, is not a dumbass, he's just an asshole, which means there's still a chance."

"I'm not so sure," grumbled Kuja. Then he hissed loudly in annoyance and launched to his feet again, pacing to the windowsill and back, fingernails rooting through his hair and digging into his scalp. "They'll have to start moving again. Look at the sky; she's preparing to strike. _Soon_." Kuja kicked out in frustration, catching a leg of the coffee table and causing it to skid violently sideways. "Jecht! They don't even have Squall's _phone number_! They've known the kid for _days_ and they have no way of contacting him. I don't think they even have any idea where he lives. They're completely helpless!"

Jecht reclined lazily on the couch and gazed at his partner with clear, nonjudgmental eyes. He shrugged and said plainly, "Then we'll just have to help them out."

Kuja stilled, arms falling limp to his sides, and stared at Jecht with a bland sort of disbelief. "What do you think I've been trying to _do_ all this time?"

Jecht shrugged again. "_You_ have been trying to help them. I get that. _Believe me_. What I'm saying now is that I'm going to help _you_ help _them_ and, by extension, help _them_ myself. My son _is_ among them, after all."

They stared at each other for a single minute, expressions entirely unreadable. Then Kuja broke into a bright, almost hysterical smile and said with utter sincerity, "You are the nicest jerk I have ever met."

"I try," Jecht said, preening himself with mock-arrogance. A second later, Kuja dropped himself unceremoniously into Jecht's lap and smashed their mouths together.

* * *

Bartz scrambled to retrieve his phone, once more, from his pocket. The caller ID was unfamiliar and Bartz usually ignored called from unknown numbers, but it could be one of the people on the list.

"Hello?" he said quickly.

"_Er, hi…is this Bartz…_?" replied a timid, vaguely familiar voice.

"Yep, and who is this?"

"_It's Tidus…we met yesterday at Dream's End_."

Bartz's eyes boggled for a moment. "_Yeah_! Yeah, I remember you! What's up? Are you all right?"

There was a pause; Tidus was hesitating. _"…I can't reach Firion_," he whispered at last. "_I stopped by his house, but he wasn't there, and I've called him a million times, but he won't answer. I don't know where he could be and you said to call if anything happened, so…_"

"Can you drive?" Bartz was immediately thinking ahead, mind racing with possibilities. What had happened to that tree anyway? "And do you have a car?"

"_Y-Yeah_," stuttered Tidus. "_I can and…I-I do_."

"Good, do you know the Cosmos Café?"

"_Um, I think so… Why_?" Tidus's voice sounded weak, he was on the verge of panic. Bartz hated to ask him to drive anywhere, but he couldn't think of any other option.

"Go there, now. Zidane and I will be waiting and we'll help you find him, all right?"

"_S-Sure, but I'm… I don't have my year, yet_!"

Bartz dragged a hand over his face, trying to hold off the guilt. "It's fine, you'll be with me soon and I'm a licensed adult, it'll be _fine_. Tidus— _Tidus_, just listen to me." Tidus's breathing was too quick and he was wheezing slightly; he was panicking now. "Tidus! Calm down! We'll find him, I promise. Just…take a deep breath, don't get in the car until you can breath normally. Okay? Are you at home?"

"_Um, okay. I mean, yeah, I'm home_." Bartz could hear Tidus attempting to follow his advice, he could hear the younger boy straining to slow his breathing.

"Is your dad there?" Bartz remembered Tidus saying something about his dad being crankier than usual. Bartz had no doubt that this was true and so he counted it as potentially a contributing factor to Tidus's current state.

"_No, I haven't… He left about twenty minutes ago…_" Tidus paused; Bartz could practically _hear_ the thoughts turning in his head. "_Twenty minutes ago…around the same time that…_"

"Around the same time that Firion disappeared?" he guessed.

"_Around the time I realized I couldn't reach him_."

Bartz blanched. "Are you…? Are you implying that you think your _father_ kidnapped your best friend?"

Silence rung through the phone, shrill and uncomfortable. Zidane was staring at Bartz with wide, incredulous eyes. Then he mouthed, '_What's going on_?'

"_No_!" yelped Tidus, he sounded slightly offended. "_No…it's just, I dunno, it's too weird of a coincidence to not point it out_."

"Right, well," said Bartz, "just…get over here when you're ready and we'll talk more then."

"_Yeah, okay_."

"And don't worry, we _will_ find him."

"_Thanks_."

Bartz snapped his phone shut and, once again, returned it to his pocket. "I kinda hate my life right now."

"What the heck just happened?" asked Zidane, deceptively calm. Bartz could tell that the smaller blond was reeling from curiosity and a lack of sufficient information.

Bartz sighed wearily. "I don't know… We'll just have to wait to talk to Tidus."

"And Tidus thinks his dad has something to do with Firion being missing…?"

"No…he just thinks it was too weird of a coincidence…"

"So now what do we do?"

"Nothing, really. We wait for Tidus and hope that Squall contacts _us_, because we sure as hell aren't calling _him_ anytime soon." Bartz pushed the heels of his hands to eyes until starburst patterns appeared beneath his lids. "We are so effing stupid. It's been _days_ and we don't have his damned phone number."

"I don't think we're stupid," Zidane murmured. At Bartz's flat stare, he elaborated. "Think about it, in the last couple of days we've—well, _you've_—been visited by a strange lady in white, we stole a necklace from a coma patient, got chased by an imposter-doctor, stared down by the scariest boyfriend in the history of boyfriends, attacked by a tree, and just now we met the freakiest car salesperson on the _planet_. It's been a rough couple of days, I think we have a legit excuse for forgetting to ask Squall for his number."

"Why are you more logical than me?" Bartz deadpanned.

Zidane shrugged. "I pay attention in school…occasionally."

"Occasionally," Bartz repeated, scoffing, but he couldn't help grinning at the blond. Then he frowned. "I have no idea how we're going to find Firion… I don't even know the first thing about the guy."

"Maybe he'll turn up on his own?" Zidane suggested hopefully.

"Maybe Tidus's dad really did have something to do with his disappearance and, just because our lives are all screwed up like that, it'll turn out that Firion's been chilling with Tidus's dad and Kuja all this time. We last saw Kuja around twenty minutes ago, right? So it all fits the pattern."

Zidane chuckled. "_Pfft_. Now you're just being ridiculous. Kuja's twenty-four and in the 'prime of his life,' he's 'too good' to hang out with someone's old man."

They shared a laugh at the expense of Kuja's narcissism and settled down to wait for Tidus. Enjoying the sudden silence and, somewhere in the backs of their heads, both thought back on the events of the past few days. They still had two more people to find and then they had to gather everyone at Bartz's house—except the Warrior of Light, of course, because he was in a coma…

"We are so stupid," said Bartz, clamping his hands over his face.

"I thought we established that we've had reason to be a little…slow?"

"No, I mean, we're fucking _stupid_," Bartz repeated earnestly. "We're supposed to gather everyone on the list at my house to meet with Calais. Guess how many people I've gotten contact numbers from."

Zidane was quiet for a moment while he turned this bit of information over in his head. Then he dropped his head into his hands. "Shit."

"We kind of suck at this."

"On the bright side, we've got Tidus's number in your call history, that counts for something."

Bartz nodded, smiling appreciatively at Zidane's attempted optimism.

"Hey," he said abruptly, "random thought."

"Yeah?"

"That guy from the Car Place, d'you think he would've sold us a car if we'd stuck around instead of fleeing from the sight of him? I mean, running away probably wasn't the best for his self-esteem and I doubt it left him with a very high impression of us…"

"Dude, I think that guy would've cooked us and _eaten_ us if we'd stuck around. Seriously. I don't care if he thinks we're rude and I don't care about his self-esteem, because _he would have eaten us_."

"Hm…" Bartz was oddly thoughtful. "I think he would've served you with some elaborate side dish of fruit, heavy on the bananas, to complement your monkey tail. He probably would've roasted you on a spit, too, to continue with the tropical forest theme…"

Zidane looked at Bartz as if there were lobsters crawling out of his ears. "What the hell…?"

"I, on the other hand, would be smoked, kind of like a salmon, to give me an edge of oaky flavoring. I'm a woodsy type of guy, you know, one with nature and all that."

"And you'd go with a side dish of wild berries with a pinch of parsley to make it look fancy, right?"

"Exactly." Bartz puffed his chest out proudly. "I think I'd be delicious, thank you."

Zidane laughed freely. "Okay," he said, grinning uncontrollably. "Okay, so the bad-guys we've encountered so far have been"—he counted off on his fingers—"psycho-doctor-imposter-man, evil tree, and cannibalistic-car-salesman. _Wow_."

"And if the pattern continues, next we'll be attacked by…I dunno, _the embodiment of the wind_. That'll be fun."

* * *

Tidus had been in no shape to continue driving, so Bartz had taken over and driven the three of them back to his house. It felt good and odd to be driving again, having not sat behind the wheel of a car in a little over a year since his own car had sadly passed away. Zidane sat dutifully in back seat, resigned, but knowing better than to complain at a time like this. Tidus was silent the entire way, hardly speaking and staring dully out the window.

They gathered in Bartz's kitchen each cradling a mug of hot mocha with an excess of mini-marshmallows.

"So," said Bartz, sitting on the barstool next to Tidus, "what happened, exactly?"

Tidus shook his head. "I really…don't know. Firion and I always meet up in the afternoon, we play video games and he kicks my butt… He always tells me if he can't make it or calls me if he's running late, but he didn't this time… So I called him a bunch and when he never answered, I stopped by his house and…" Tidus swallowed hard; his eyes were haunted. "His house was empty. I mean, there was _no one_ there and that's not normal. There's always _someone_ there!"

"Who does he live with? Maybe we can contact them and they'll be able to tell us where he is," suggested Zidane.

Tidus shook his head. "I tried that. He has three housemates—Guy, Leon, and Maria—I tried all three numbers, but…it was like they didn't exist."

"The people…?"

"No, the numbers." Tidus pushed his mug away from him to make room for his elbows and dropped his forehead to his palms. "I got that automated voice thing telling me that the '_number I have dialed is no longer in service._'" Tidus let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "Though I suppose the people might as well not exist either, in all the years I've known Firion, I've never actually _seen_ any of them. Only old pictures."

"All right, then…" Bartz wasn't sure how to respond, but he tried. "Well, we'll try looking in the places where Firion usually hangs out—"

"My house and school."

Bartz frowned. "Should we call the police?"

"What else can we do?" said Zidane, shrugging helplessly.

Tidus folded his arms and put his head down, effectively removing himself from any further conversation.

Bartz sighed and picked up the home phone, his thumb was hovering over the '9' button when his cell phone began to ring shrilly from his pocket. Bartz hesitated and then passed the phone to Zidane.

"Call the police, report a missing person," he said and then took his cell to the next room, his bedroom. "Hello?"

"_Hello, is this, er, Bartz_?"

"Yes…?" Bartz was struck with a minor bout of déjà vu.

"_This is Cecil Harvey…you said to call if, well…_" the man was almost whispering, Bartz had to strain to hear him.

"Are you all right?" Cecil's tone didn't sound all right, but Bartz didn't want to make assumptions.

"_I don't— No, I'm not,_" Cecil confessed, sounding relieved and urgent at the same time. "_Kain disappeared. No note, no phone call, nothing; he's just _gone."

"Have _you_ called _him_?" Bartz knew it was a foolish question to ask even before the words passed his lips, but he couldn't immediately think of anything better to say.

"_Of course_!" Cecil said, his voice finally over a whisper; Bartz could hear the building hysteria. There was something more the situation than another missing person. "_I called his cell, but I got a message saying the number doesn't exist_!"

"This is too weird…" Bartz said quietly, mostly to himself, but Cecil heard him nevertheless.

"_What_?"

"Tidus called a little while ago, he's here at my house now, his friend Firion is missing and all numbers tied to Firion no longer exist."

"_Firion_? _I know Firion. He takes fencing lessons from me once a week_."

"There's no way these…disappearances"—Bartz winced at the word, but it was horribly appropriate—"aren't connected somehow… Maybe…maybe this is what Calais was talking about when she said this would be dangerous. I know you don't trust her, Cecil, but I do. She warned me that there would be trouble and now people are going missing and… Cecil?"

Bartz suddenly realized that the other end of the line was too quiet; there wasn't even the muted static of an open phone line.

"_Cecil_? Are you there!" Bartz pulled his phone back and checked the screen. It was blinking urgently at him: _Connection Lost_. "Shoot. This can't be good."

Bartz whipped around to run for the kitchen and, from the corner of his eye, he noticed a slip of paper sitting in the shadow of his bedside table. He swallowed hard. Like a man possessed, he approached the fallen note with carefully laid footsteps and stooped to pick it up at arm's length. It was folded into fourths, but the paper unfurled easily, almost without his help. Bartz stared at the neat, unfamiliar handwriting, trying to remember when he'd gotten this and who it was from. It was a poem:

_For every one, there is another_

_Though not necessarily a brother_

_The total lands at six over twenty_

_So be assured, danger will be plenty_

_The villain will not always be clear_

_Simply know that they are near_

_If ever you need friendly advice_

_Come to me, I will suffice_

It was…just a poem, but it filled Bartz with dread. And then he remembered: this was the note Kuja had given him after the attack in the woods. His heart dropped to his stomach, gripped with icy fear. Kuja knew; whatever the hell was going on with Calais and the weather and the strange people and the disappearances, _Kuja knew_.

Bartz practically threw his cell phone aside—he didn't need it—and crumpled the note in his hand as he ran from the room to the kitchen.

"_Zidane_!" he shouted, voice strangled by his urgency. "Holy shit, Zidane!"

Zidane and Tidus were on their feet in a matter of seconds, both panicked and ready for the worst.

"We have to get your brother. _NOW_!"

"What?" yelped Tidus, now angry. "What about _Firion_?"

"What?" yelped Zidane, now confused. "What the hell does Kuja have to do with anything?"

Bartz shoved the poem into Zidane's hands and snatched up Tidus's car keys from the counter. "Come on," he shouted, already halfway out the door. "We have to go _now_!"

He vaguely heard Zidane shouting, "Bartz! Wait!"

Then the front door slammed shut and Bartz was jumping into the driver's seat, moving too fast to even consider slowing down. He was going to get some answers. He was going to figure out what all this was about. He was going to ask the questions he should have asked Calais in the first place.

He was so focused on getting to Zidane's apartment, that he took no notice of the howling wind that rattled the trees and caused the telephone poles to wobble dangerously. He sped down the road, wavering from side to side across the asphalt, too reckless to be thankful for the town's minimal activity. He was too caught up to notice anything, to even think about being more cautious. He _didn't think_.

And so, he couldn't react in time to avoid the telephone pole that toppled unexpectedly and crashed into the hood and roof of Tidus's car. After that, everything went black.


	7. Chapter 6 :: Revelations

**Disclamation! **Dissidia: Final Fantasy © Square Enix.

**A/N! **Due to recent updates (meaning mag77, who is wonderful, told me about the subbed version of the Duodecim trailer), I have decided to see if I can slide Dissidia's newest faces into the this story. Kain's covered, obviously, he was here from the start, but now you can expect to see Tifa and Lightning and maybe even Vaan (Vaan's not a guarantee, because I know absolutely nothing about his character). And, because mag77 is just so wonderful, I now know the context of that conversation between Zidane, Bartz, Squall, and _Kuja_ and it is, well, _wonderful_~! I'm so freaking pumped for this game! Just as freaking pumped as I am for Julie Taymor's version of _The Tempest_! Gah! So many wonderful things in my life!

ALSO! I went back through the previous chapters and set up a timeline for myself. It was becoming painfully clear that I'd lost track of the dates within my story and it was inevitably going to screw me over. So I took care of that, went back and re-uploaded chapter five to fix a spot where Tidus says, "we met a while ago at Dream's End," because "a while ago" implies a larger passage of time and my handy-dandy timeline reminded me that, _hey_, they met at Dream's End _YESTERDAY. _Mongo difference there!

My handy-dandy timeline has also revealed that, starting at Chapter 0, this story had taken place over the course of five days _so far_. Wow, even _I_ didn't know that! Anyway, if you've noticed any discrepancies with timeline in the previous chapters, please let me know so can fix them right away!

One last thing, I swear! A couple of you guys were wondering about the KujaxJecht pairing, because it kind of is a pretty random pairing… I was inspired by a conversation on deviantART and yadda-yadda, I've already given that spiel in the review replies, and for a while I couldn't remember a single cut scene with the two of them together, but there is one! At the end of Firion's Destiny Odyssey, there's a little scene where Kuja's picking a fight with Garland and then Jecht shows up, makes a sarcastic remark and demands to join the fight. Kuja stares at him for a moment, then gets all huffy and says, "I've lost interest," and then just up and flies away. YES! There's at least _one_ scene between the two of them in the game~ Yay! :3 (Also, I think they just look cute together!)

_THE MESSENGER (featuring Your Favorite Enemies) – Takeharu Ishimoto_

* * *

**The Messenger**

Chapter Six :: Revelations

The front of Bartz Klauser's cottage was reminiscent of a cozy summerhouse porch, complete with swing and small veranda to provide shade when the trees could not. The cottage itself consisted mainly of three rooms: the kitchen and living room were united, set apart from the bedroom, which was separated from the bathroom-slash-laundry room by a short hallway down the middle. The backyard was the same size as the building, if not slightly bigger to accommodate Boko and all the necessary sheds and shelters that went along with owning a large, domesticated bird.

It was a small, comfortable place to live. It was a place where Zidane had always felt so welcome, so at home. It wasn't until now that Zidane realized it wasn't the house, but the man who _lived_ there that made him feel so safe. It wasn't until Bartz was no longer _there_ that he realized just how much of a difference the brunet made in his life.

Zidane sat on the back steps and watched as Boko rooted through the grass with his large beak, searching for fallen oats and maybe the occasional worm. Inside, he could hear the muffled voice of Tidus speaking wearily to the police officers, who had been delayed in their arrival due to a sudden emergency on the road. A car crash, more accurately a car _accident_—an old silver car crushed under a fallen telephone pole—but it was all the same to Zidane. He didn't stick around to hear the details of the accident; he knew it was Bartz who had been crushed, knew it was Bartz who had had to be cut out of the vehicle and rushed to Order's Sanctuary General for emergency surgery. Zidane didn't need to be told twice, there was no need to put salt on a fresh wound.

Zidane tried to deny the tears in his eyes, but he would've had a better chance denying the need to breathe.

He didn't look up at the sound of the sliding glass door rattling along its track, opening and then quickly closing again, and he didn't look up at the sound of heeled boots crossing the wooden deck. He didn't need to look to know who was standing behind him, especially when that person kneeled swiftly and looped a pair of thin, familiar arms around his shoulders. The sweet smell of Kuja's salon-brand shampoo encompassed him and, though he and his brother had never really been close, Zidane couldn't stop himself from giving in to the embrace. He leaned back against Kuja's chest, bowed his head, and cried.

Kuja laid his cheek on the top of Zidane's head and rocked him slowly back and forth, cooing small phrases that held comfort in the sound of his voice instead of the words he spoke. Kuja held him and didn't let go until the tears stopped flowing, until he felt too empty to continue. Then Kuja shifted so that he was sitting beside his younger sibling and gently tugged Zidane to lean against him.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly, keeping an arm around Zidane's shoulders in a soothing half-hug.

Zidane only shrugged, his eyes still fixed on Boko's grazing form. He was almost angry at the stupid bird for being so nonplused by the world surrounding him, so _unaware_ of all that had happened. But mostly, he envied Boko's ignorance, his lack of capability to understand. He wished he could be so simple-minded, only able to focus on one thing at a time—like the grass beneath his feet or the wind rustling through his feathers. That would be so easy.

"Come on, then," said Kuja, rising and pivoting gracefully to stand directly in front of Zidane. He held out his slim hands expectantly. "On your feet, let's go."

"Go where…?" Zidane asked faintly, nevertheless he placed his hands in Kuja's, implicitly trusting his older sibling.

"Order's Sanctuary," Kuja said as though it were obvious and then rolled his eyes. "Bartz isn't dead, little brother, so stop acting like he is."

Kuja held onto Zidane's wrist and dragged the blond inside, leading him through the living room where one of the two police officers was interviewing Tidus and a broad, muscular man who shared Tidus's facial features. Zidane vaguely wondered if this was Tidus's father and how he'd gotten here and why. Kuja flashed the man a familiar smile, but didn't slow his pace—Zidane also noticed how Kuja's eyes slipped to the female police officer and tightened noticeably. He recognized her, too, that much was obvious, but Zidane couldn't decide if his brother was friendly with her or if he hated her.

It didn't matter though, because Zidane wasn't a simple-minded chocobo. He couldn't distract himself from the fact that Bartz was in the hospital.

Zidane looked down at the note that was still crumpled in his fist, gripped in the same hand attached to the wrist caught up in Kuja's demanding grasp. He'd read it after Bartz had rushed from the house, before the police had arrived, and he'd recognized the handwriting immediately.

Something bubbled in the pit of Zidane's stomach. Something like fury.

He'd figured it all out while sitting on the back step, listening to the police interrogate Tidus in the living room after they'd finished interrogating him. Bartz had left the room to answer a phone call—a phone call that Zidane knew nothing about—and while in that other room, he'd found the note—Zidane didn't know anything about the note either. When had Bartz gotten it and why hadn't he showed it to Zidane sooner? Regardless, Zidane had no doubt that the phone call had been distressing and then reading the note had been the final straw, the one that broke the proverbial camel's back. All the stress of today alone was enough to make Bartz jittery, but add that to the past few days and it was enough to make Bartz reckless. Enough to make him irrational. Nevertheless, Bartz had kept himself together very well; he'd managed to brush off an attack from a tree and even make a rather twisted joke about the car salesman. If Bartz hadn't gone into the other room, Zidane figured, then he would be sitting right alongside Tidus, talking calmly to the police. If he hadn't gone into the other room, he would not have taken Tidus's car in a panic and he would not have crashed.

If Bartz _had not_ gone into the other room, he would not have found that note like he did. He would have found it later when he wasn't worried about a missing person and failing in the task that Calais had given him. He would have been calm and he would have continued to conduct himself with admirable self-control.

All the 'ifs' in the world weren't going to change a thing, Zidane knew that—he knew that better than anyone—but there still remained a single, undeniable fact: it was the note that had set Bartz off, the note that Bartz had gotten from Kuja.

Something very much like fury bubbled in Zidane's stomach, it bubbled up and up until it reached his throat and filled his mouth with bile.

He stopped short and vomited onto the rug underfoot.

Kuja yelped in surprise, releasing Zidane's wrist as he jumped back to protect his boots from ruin. Then he sidestepped the mess, took his brother gingerly by the arm, and led him to the bathroom. Zidane sunk to his knees before the open toilet seat, leaning against the cool porcelain of the neighboring bathtub, and watched weakly as Kuja busied himself at the sink. A moment later, Kuja held out a cup half-filled with cool water. Zidane rinsed his mouth, spat into the toilet, and then drank down the remaining water.

"Thanks," he muttered. The anger still writhed in his stomach, but he didn't think he was going to throw up again.

Kuja crouched down in front of him, elbows resting on his knees, fingers twined loosely together, and stared until Zidane met his eyes and held them there. He puckered his lips in thought and narrowed his eyes slightly, and then finally he spoke.

"Why are you so mad?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"This is all your fault," Zidane growled out.

Kuja nearly flinched at the accusation. "How so?"

Zidane uncurled his fist and held up the crumpled note for his brother to see. Kuja grimaced slightly and lifted it delicately from Zidane's open palm, smoothing it against his leg and taking in the familiar words.

"I admit I had not anticipated such a dire reaction to this silly little poem. It's hardly even my best work." Kuja shook his head and made a point to meet Zidane's eye once more. "To think it was only yesterday that I gave this to him. It's remarkable how the time can fill up and fly away so unexpectedly."

Then Kuja rose fluidly to his feet—Zidane wondered how Kuja could move so easily in those boots, black suede that clung to his lower legs and boosted his height with spiked, three-inch heels—and smoothed out his pearl-gray cashmere sweater. The dark tones of his outfit made the silver and lavender of his driving gloves stand out like twin beacons and Zidane was hard-pressed to understand the fashion-appeal of that. Kuja held out one gloved hand and hauled Zidane to his feet, acting as if they were the best of friends.

"Come, come," said Kuja, his voice calm and melodic. "We've a friend to visit in the hospital."

"Wait, I'm mad at you!" Zidane protested as Kuja dragged him from the bathroom and back through the living room.

Kuja paused to catch the attention of the broad, muscular man and deliberately ignored the irritated glare directed at him from the female police officer.

"Jecht, be a darling and throw that rug in the wash," Kuja said in the sweet voice he reserved for manipulating and guilt tripping. The broad man only grumbled good-naturedly and heaved himself off the couch, wrinkling his nose as he bundled up the rug and carried it off to the laundry room.

Zidane glanced up at his brother, but Kuja was staring at the officer with a highly superior smirk on his face. The staring match only lasted a second longer and then Kuja exited the house at a smart, brisk pace with Zidane dumbly in tow.

Once past the threshold, the brothers were immediately barraged by the heavy winds, strong enough to make them both stagger the moment they stepped off the veranda. Kuja scowled and released Zidane's wrist to gather up his long, silver hair, loudly complaining about it getting tangled and how the shorter, fluffier layers around his face were blocking his eyes. Then, once he'd collected his voluminous hair in one hand, Kuja snatched up Zidane's wrist in the other and continued to pull him towards his red SUV.

Even crossing ten feet of Bartz's driveway was perilous. The wind struck relentlessly, stinging across their cheeks and slicing through the layers of their clothing, leaving them chilled and shivering. Kuja, as well balanced as he was in his oh-so fashionable boots, wobbled with every step and his direction listed noticeably. It was a wonder he even stayed grounded, he was a very small man and didn't weigh much at all.

Zidane tried to shout to him, ask more about what was going on or further express the anger that had settled in his stomach, but the wind pushed his voice back down his throat. So Zidane, in favor of escaping the chill and gale-force, quit dragging his feet and hurried with Kuja to the car. Once safely inside, the silver brother jammed his keys into the ignition and brought the heaters to life alongside the engine, then he spent a few minutes smoothing out the mess that had been made of his hair. Zidane waited impatiently for Kuja to notice that he was glaring, because Zidane was determined to be angry with his brother.

But Kuja only told him in a low, neutral voice to buckle his seatbelt while clicking his own into place. Zidane didn't fully understand why Kuja was being so overly careful while peeling out of Bartz's gravel driveway until he noticed the second police officer sitting behind of the wheel of the black-and-white cruiser, relaying updates of the situation to the police station through a radio. Once they turned out on the paved street, Kuja pressed a little harder on the gas pedal and removed one hand from the wheel to undo his seatbelt.

Once he was settled into his usual driving position—the fingers of his left hand lazily curled over the bottom of the wheel, forearm resting on his lap, and his right palm dangling loosely over the gearshift—Kuja slid a sideways glance at Zidane, one elegant eyebrow arched delicately.

"Well, go on," he said, "I'm sure you're bursting with questions. There are a few blatantly obvious ones that I'm surprised you haven't blurted out already."

Zidane tried to come up with a way to stay angry and sate his curiosity at the same time, but it was difficult when Kuja was being so uncharacteristically agreeable. Zidane pursed his lips when it became obvious that he simply couldn't be angry—he was upset, undeniably so, but he wasn't angry.

"All right," he said with an air of defeat, "clearly you know way more about what's going on that we do…"

"Indeed," Kuja said silkily, taking the curves in the road with an ease that was startling, considering how only half his mind was on his driving; Zidane couldn't feel any of the expected inertia.

"I… I'm not sure what to ask or…how to say it," Zidane admitted. "I mean… Bartz… I wanna know _how_ that happened…I wanna know who called him and why and… I want to understand what's going on, because nothing actually makes sense when you really think about it! Some strange lady shows up and gives him a list and says to find them, but doesn't explain why and somehow we believe her anyway? Seriously! What the hell? _Why_ would any sane person believe all the crap she told us?"

"Because in your heart, you know it's true."

"It's completely stupid and illogical and—what?" Zidane paused mid-rant; he almost hadn't heard Kuja's low murmur.

Kuja kept his eyes fixed on the pavement while he spoke in a voice that was nearly drowned by the combined rumble of the engine, the roar of the heaters, and the howl of the wind streaming over the vehicle. "Deep inside you, in your heart or your soul or whatever you choose to call it, you know that Cos—" Kuja winced, "_Calais_ is right. It's not something you are consciously aware of; it is far more intimate than that. There is a knowledge branded into your very being, but it is being…suppressed."

"What is it…?" Zidane whispered, awed and terrified all at once. Suddenly…Kuja wasn't just _Kuja _anymore, he was someone far more powerful. Though he did physically change in any way or shape, there was a perceivable shift in the air around him: a sort of crackling, like static electricity—raw power—waiting to be tapped into.

But Kuja only shook his head. "I cannot tell you that, little brother. I am a mere, mortal messenger. I can only offer hints and occasional guidance; you must find the answer by yourself." Kuja's mouth was set in a grim line. "When you do find your answers, Zidane, beware. This cast consists of many players, some very good and some very bad, and they are not always obvious."

* * *

The murmur of the television, currently broadcasting one of the world's many late-night talk shows, was a low hum in the sprawling countryside house, but the silence was so thick that every word was easily heard. From across the living room, seated in an aged armchair by the window, he listened to the host chatter on in a loud, boisterous voice and wondered if he could get away with unplugging the television. He was about to stand and put this thought into action, when the host abruptly switched to a new topic.

"_Have you guys heard about all the crazy stuff that went on today in Rift? Well"_—he sniggered_—"I suppose a more accurate question would be: who here know where the hell Rift is?"_ He laughed and the audience gave an obligatory chuckle. _"Anyway, anyway, so earlier today—around one or two, I think—this guy's car gets smashed by a telephone pole. The thing just fell over right when he was driving by, according to the crash's _only_ witness…who is fifteen, so clearly unreliable." _Another obligatory chuckle from the audience. _"So the accident is reported and paramedics show up and this guy has to be cut out of the car and rushed to the hospital. But that's not the crazy part!_

"_Right before the accident, _moments_ even, someone called in a missing person and this 'someone' was the best friend of car-crash-guy, _but_ the missing person was someone completely unrelated. So here we've got Bartz Klauser in the hospital and Firion Bosch is a missing person. We can assume that the two know each other, because best friend Zidane Tribal called in the report. _Then_, only half an hour later—_half an hour, people!—_another report is filed and this one is a doozey. Cecil Harvey—man I bet this guy got picked on all through school for a name like that. Anyway, Cecil"—_a snigger—_"and his partner Kain Highwind are reported missing by Harvey's older brother."_

He scowled at how the host ridiculed Cecil's name and how he couldn't even be bothered to learn how to pronounce it correctly.

"_After some investigation, the police found out that Bosch took _fencing_ lessons from Harvey Jr., but there's no connection between Harvey and Klauser._

"_And then, just to make things weirder_, two more _people are reported missing! Holy crap, what is _wrong_ with this town?" _The host laughed again and the audience chuckled along as instructed. _"But these two other people don't fit the established pattern. All the people missing are white men, late teens to early twenties, and are connected somehow. The next two other people are women and they are totally unrelated and they were called in by two different people on different sides of town. Here're the names: Tifa Lockhart and Claire—I love this—'_Lightning'_ Farron. That's one hell of nickname, I'd like to know how she got it."_ He could hear the lecherous grin in the host's voice and it made his skin crawl, how was this man still on television? _"I mean, she's a smart, young Federal agent; I've seen her photograph and_"—he let out an appreciative whistle—"_I wouldn't mind being arrested by her, if you kno—_"

He shifted in his chair so that he could see the television set, curious as to why it had suddenly gone quiet. A tall, slender woman with porcelain skin, silken pink hair, and razor-sharp eyes stood over the monitor, plug dangling from her right hand, left hand placed akimbo on her hip. She looked ready to kill.

"Repulsive," Claire growled. She was still dressed in the smart black slacks and fitted black button-up that she'd been wearing when she arrived, though she'd dropped her government-issue bulletproof vest for comfort purposes.

He smirked. "I'm surprised you didn't shoot it."

She glowered. "Theodore took my gun."

"With good reason," he said, managing to joke in his mild, unexpressive tone. "You would've destroyed his television set."

She rolled her eyes. "I don't see why he'd care, he never actually _watches_ it."

He shrugged and sunk back into the armchair, returning his flat stare to the windowsill. He didn't care for the sprawling countryside or the penciled lines of the barbed-wire fence that held in the distant neighbor's multitude of cattle. He didn't care for the view that stretched miles away from the window. He only cared for the nearby figure that stood on the edge of the porch, lost in his thoughts as he stared out at the endless expanse of dry, western territory.

He heard her sigh and listened as her sensible shoes tread across the thin carpet, she came to stand behind his chair, leaning against its wide back with folded arms.

"Give him time, Kain," she said gently. "It's a lot to take in. If not for the years of studying psychology, criminology, the police training, and data analysis for the FBI, I'd probably be as overwhelmed he is right now."

"I suppose we've both had an unfair advantage over the others," he remarked. "We've both been trained to stay collected in any kind of situation."

"Also, and I'm sure you realize this, he also had the disadvantage of your job requirements."

Kain frowned and bowed his head slightly, the greatest mark of his displeasure. Ever since they had met so many years ago, Kain had held to his sworn secrecy and explained away his sudden absences as spur-of-the-moment vacations. But as they had become closer and closer, the lies became increasingly difficult, because he couldn't just "fly to Europe on a whim" anymore. He needed legitimate excuses and reasons to not bring his partner along—so he became a researcher, an article-writer for a historical magazine. His trips became less "fun" and more business and though Cecil was welcome to come, it would be terribly boring to hang out in a foreign city alone while Kain met with and interviewed professors and historians.

He was lucky that he wasn't called away for international missions as often as some of his fellow agents and almost always spent every night in his own bed. If he had to endure anymore than the occasional weekend away from home, Kain didn't think he'd able to keep his real job a secret.

"I know that he understands why I had to lie," said Kain, "and he knows that I understand why he's upset about it anyway."

"No matter how logically he thinks about it, deep down it still feels like a betrayal of trust," Claire said wisely. "Add that to everything else that has recently been dumped on him and suddenly it's like nothing he's ever known is real, not even you."

Kain nodded somberly. "But he'll come around."

"Are you confident in that or are you trying to convince yourself, because you're not actually sure?"

"You're off-duty, Lightning, there's no need to analyze me." The scowl was in his voice; his expression remained impassive.

She pushed off the chair and moved to stand beside it so that she could ruffle his hair in something like sisterly affection. "You're off-duty, too, you know? It's okay to open up a little."

He brushed his hair away from his face and glared at her retreating form. When he looked back at the window, he caught the fading wisps of magic as a second figure materialized on the front porch. He watched Cecil flinch and leap away like a skittish horse. He couldn't hear the words being spoken, but it was clear that the newcomer was flippantly assuring that he would do no harm.

Moments later, the front door opened and the distinct clip of heels against the hardwood of the entryway preceded Kuja's entrance to the living room.

Kain stood and addressed the slighter man. He tried not to come off rude, but it couldn't really be helped given the questions he was asking. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be at the hospital with your brother and his friend?"

Kuja clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Such hostility. I am here only by request and I won't stay long. I_ am_ needed at the hospital after all."

"Who called you?"

"I did."

Both turned to the open doorway and the figure that stood under the yellowed light of the hallway. He looked pale and unhealthy, like he hadn't been getting enough sleep, but he also looked determined.

"Absolutely not," Kain said immediately. "You're in no state to go anywhere."

"Not even to a hospital?" Firion asked ironically.

"_Especially_ not to the hospital. If you go there, he'll know the minute you step through the front door."

"Perhaps," he conceded, "but he won't get me."

"Of course he'll get you. Do you realize that the only reason Light is there is to draw you in as well? It's a trap and I can't let you walk right into it." Kain had the remarkable ability to shout without raising his voice, it was a skill he'd picked up from years spent in espionage and had perfected to an art form. Usually, he could cow even the hardest man with the chilling baritone of his voice, but this sleep-deprived boy standing before him was not entirely fazed.

"I realize it's a trap," Firion said impatiently. "He's the _master_ of traps, I'd be surprised if there _wasn't_ some kind of trap waiting for me. But that's exactly why I have to go. Bartz is in that hospital, too, and wherever Bartz goes, Zidane is not far behind and I _know_ that Tidus is with them now. Why else would _Zidane_ report my disappearance?"

Kain let out a long, frustrated breath; years of espionage had also told him when an effort was futile. "You'll go no matter what I say, won't you?"

"Yes."

Kuja stepped up, grinning with lazy arrogance. "Don't worry one bit, canary, I'll keep him out of trouble."

An instant later, Kuja and Firion vanished in a pulse of magic and Kain sat heavily, dropping his head into his hands. He was hardly convinced of Firion's safety, because he knew from experience that trouble was something that came, unbidden, to Kuja's side.

* * *

_Ring… Ring… Ring… Ring—_**click.**

_"Hey, what's up? …Uh-huh. …Yeah. …Hey, hold that thought, I'm not actually here right now, so leave a message and I'll get back to you A.S.A.P. so we can continue this _wonderful_ conversation! Thanks!"_ **Beep.**

* * *

**A/N: **Okay, this will the be the last chapter for at least three weeks, because the next _two_ weeks will be a mass of studying, performing Pericles, and then finals weeks. After two weeks I'll be off on Winter Break and my goal is to get chapter 7 up by Christmas.

And I hope Lightning wasn't out of character… I've never played FFXIII and, as I mentioned above, she's a recent addition to the story.

Thanks for reading and please review!

:) Astrum


	8. Chapter 7 :: Aftermath

**Disclamation! **Dissidia: Final Fantasy © Square Enix.

**A/N! **I took down this chapter, re-worked it, lengthened it, and re-uploaded it. Sorry for making you wait so long for a chapter you've mostly already read but the previous version of this was just terrible. I've recently started playing Duodecim and now I'm super pumped to keep writing, especially now that I've gotten all my other drama out of the way. I'm on summer vacation, hell yeah~! Soo...here it is, the new chapter seven, soon to be followed by the all-new never-before-seen chapter eight!

Also, an anonymous reviewer mentioned that Zidane isn't a dumbass and I completely agree, he is definitely a very clever character. Have I made him seem like a dumbass in this story? If I did, it wasn't intentional and while I'm far too lazy to go back and re-edit chapters to change this, I'll try my best to fix this in the chapters to come.

Oh, one more thing: I am a big-time shipper of WoL x Firion.

_THE MESSENGER (featuring Your Favorite Enemies) – Takeharu Ishimoto_

* * *

**The Messenger**

Chapter Seven :: Aftermath

The extent of Bartz's injuries was this: five broken fingers (three on the left hand, two on the right), one broken wrist (left), three cracked ribs (two on the left, one on the right), one broken rib (left), one punctured lung (left), severe spinal damage, one Grade III concussion, bleeding in the frontal lobe, and a ninety-eight percent chance of never waking up.

Zidane didn't know where Kuja had gone off to, nor did he care. He could only focus on the pale form of his best friend, lying limp beneath the thin white sheets of a hospital bed. Bartz was dressed in the same plain, cotton clothes as the comatose Warrior of Light—a luxury reserved only for long-term patients. Zidane could only concentrate on the sheer amount of pristine white bandaging that seemed to cover a vast majority of Bartz's skin: the cottony gauze wrapped around his forehead and forearms and the soft brace around his neck. The skin that was still showing was bruised to an angry blackish-blue, mottled with green, and puffy with residual swelling, mostly tempered by the cocktail of antibiotics and painkillers the nurses had on a continual drip into his body. Tubes snaked across his entire form, slipping beneath the surface of his skin through holes hidden under strips of white medical tape and the intubation that kept him breathing set his head back at an awkward angle.

Zidane wanted to do _something_…he just didn't know what he could really do for Bartz in this kind of situation. The doctors and nurses had saved his life—they had set all the broken bones and repaired the damaged lung and the lacerations. They had restarted his heart twice during the grueling hours of surgery. There was nothing else to do at this point.

So all Zidane did was rest his fingers carefully over the back of Bartz's hand, the only place free of serious bandaging, and watched his friend's face for any sign of life. But Bartz was completely and agonizingly still.

He almost didn't notice when Kuja returned, slipping fluidly into the room and easing into a spare, plastic chair on the opposing side of the bed.

"Do you know what happened to Bartz's clothes?" Kuja murmured. His voice was low and soft, surprisingly gentle, but there was an undeniable urgency.

Zidane glared at Kuja. "Why is that important right now?"

"Bartz was carrying something special," Kuja whispered plainly. "I need it."

"He might never wake up," Zidane told his brother bitterly, rising shakily to his feet and balling his fists at his sides. "He might suffer permanent brain damage. He might _die_! What's more important than that?"

Kuja didn't stand, but he sat up a little straighter, and when he spoke, he didn't bother whispering. "Do you want him to die for nothing?"

"He already has!" Zidane shouted, voice cracking. Tears tracked down his cheeks and he fell heavily into his seat, bowing his chin to his chest and digging his fingers into his hair.

Kuja leaped to his feet, surged forward, and snatched up the little off-white box attached to the bed's railing; he jammed his thumb down on the call button. Zidane's attention snapped back to his brother.

"What did you just do?"

"Progress," Kuja hissed. "I can see you'll be no help at the moment, so I'm going to make some _progress_ in this situation."

"Maybe I could more help if you would just tell me what 'this situation' is!"

"_I can't_!" Kuja yelled, alight with frustration and aggravation and—Zidane fell numb with shock—_sorrow_. "How can I make you understand that? What can I say to make it stick in your _thick _skull that I _can't_?"

"…Why not?" Zidane could barely manage the hoarse murmur that his voice had become. But it was clear that Kuja would say no more, he pressed his lips into a thin line and refused to meet Zidane's stare. He instead focused on the door, waiting for a nurse to respond to his summons.

"Kuja," Zidane pressed, "why not?"

Kuja remained rigid and silent.

"_Why not_? Why can't you tell me? Give me a reason and I'll remember it," Zidane persisted. "I'll remember why you can't tell me if you'll just give me a _reason_."

The silence was agonizing; it stretched across the span of a minute and felt like an eternity. Zidane returned his hand to Bartz's, brushing his fingertips over the cool, sallow skin and watching as Kuja retreated to the corner, standing over the chair he'd abandoned. Kuja folded his arms tightly across his stomach, as if holding himself together, as if he'd fall apart if he let go.

"The reason…" Kuja muttered; he almost sounded bitter, but his tone was primarily filled with frustration. "I am merely a messenger and sent by the gods, no less. I do as I'm told, I do not ask questions."

Kuja was not lying, Zidane could tell by the small amount of defeat in his eyes, but he wasn't telling the whole truth either. He was giving a highly edited version, a tiny sliver of the full story, but Zidane knew that this was best he would get.

The door to Bartz's room slid open almost soundlessly and both brothers turned sharply to face the newcomer. She was a petite girl, pale and blonde and beautiful. She wore the striped apron of a volunteer worker, but had the soulful eyes of a girl possessed by wisdom beyond her age. As soon as she met Zidane's stare, he knew he recognized her, but he'd never met her before. He didn't know her name or anything about her, but somehow he _knew_ her.

"H-Hi…" he said, gaping a little stupidly.

The girl's cheeks took on a pink tint and she smiled shyly at Zidane. "Hi, I'm Terra. Can I help with anything?"

Kuja pushed forward before Zidane could say anything more. "Miss Terra, I was wondering if you could fetch our friend's clothes. He had a personal item in his pocket and I would feel a lot better if we had it. Just in case, you know…it was quite special."

Terra's eyes widened. Hastily, she double-checked that the door was properly closed and then rushed to the foot of Bartz's bed, where she could stand directly between Zidane and Kuja. She glanced between them and then reached into the front pocket of her apron.

"I think I know what you're talking about," she said earnestly, her voice quiet and awed. "It's what that other patient was holding for the longest time! Doctor Mateus has been trying to get it for _months_, but he could never open Light's fist. How'd you do it?"

Terra held up the necklace and its presence surged to all corners of the room.

"I knew it was special," she whispered. "I just…had this sense… It sounds crazy, but I've always felt like I've known Light from somewhere…that's how I know to call him Light… He's obviously never been awake to tell anyone that…" She trailed off, fidgeting and nervous.

Zidane swallowed hard. "Are you…Terra Branford?"

Terra blinked owlishly at him and replied in a tiny, almost frightened voice, "Yes…"

She clutched the necklace to her chest and Zidane couldn't help but imagine her as a small child lost in a busy subway, searching desperately for her mother—for comfort and safety. He stepped towards her before he could register the motion and pulled the girl into his arms; she was rigid at first, it was only natural, but she quickly relaxed and allowed her forehead to drop onto Zidane's shoulder. Her hands, clenched around the necklace's chain, were pressed against his heart and he could feel the heat radiating from the pendant, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He was certain that Terra felt it as well.

"We've been looking for you," he murmured, they were the only words that seemed appropriate. "It'll be all right now. Stay with us, you'll be safe. I promise."

"Everything's all wrong," she said, the pitch and thickness of her voice revealed that she had begun to cry. "These…these _people_ come to the hospital, but they aren't sick and they just… I don't know. I don't know what they do, but I know it's not good. It's like they're…waiting for something or someone. I don't know."

Zidane rocked her gently, stroking her back and pressing his cheek to her hair. "Just stay with us," he said. "You'll be all right."

Zidane didn't know what else to do. They had found Terra Branford, numeral six, and they had recovered the Warrior of Light's necklace. But they had lost Firion and Cecil and possibly Tidus. They had lost _Bartz_. And where the hell was Squall anyway? Zidane was going to punch that stupid barista right in the mouth if he ever showed his bored face again.

A sudden zap of heat caused Zidane and Terra to leap apart, both pressing hands to the little matching burns on their chests. Terra held the necklace out at arm's length—the pendant was glowing white-hot and the metal chain was hissing, melting.

"What the…?" Zidane crept closer to take a better look, careful not to get _too_ close so not get burned again.

Kuja pushed his way between the pair and snatched the chain from Terra's hand. She squeaked and shied away and clutched her hands in her hair as if fighting off a headache… But when the moment passed, she planted her feet and wiped the moisture from her face and suddenly she looked like a warrior.

"What does that mean?" she demanded, her voice trembled only slightly. "I've got…memories in my head of things that never happened. I didn't before and now that necklace is burning hot and it has to _mean_ something."

Kuja stared at her, his expression fixed and unreadable, and then he snapped his stare to Zidane and a knowing grin spread across his pretty face.

"Wonderful," he crooned. "Dear brother, you've triggered her memories. I'm not sure how, I thought only your opposing villain could do that…" Kuja's voice dropped to an almost inaudible level. "Though I'm not much of a villain, am I? And the clown's still locked up… Neither is available…" Kuja's grin abruptly renewed itself. "Never mind, we ought to check up on the Warrior of Light. No doubt he's felt this." Kuja emphasized the still hissing chain and glowing pendant and then strode from the room like a cat hunting a mouse: graceful and dangerous.

"What about Bartz?" Zidane protested, rooting himself to the floor. He refused to leave his best friend, not here and not like this.

Kuja whirled around in the doorway and rolled his eyes. "He's comatose, he's not going anywhere."

"But Terra just said there're people here—"

"Who only care for this necklace, they won't squander their precious time with an indisposed boy."

"Kuja…!"

"I'm stating _facts_, but if it'll make you feel better, stay here and sit with him. It is _your_ decision. I'm going to check on the Warrior of Light, I won't be long."

Kuja swept out of the room, roiling with agitation. Zidane shook his head and returned to his chair by Bartz's side, replaced his fingertips on the back of Bartz's hand. Terra hesitated only a moment and then seemed to remind herself of her duty as a nurse. She checked the I.V. drip and reviewed Bartz's vital signs and cast Zidane a look that was both grateful and sympathetic before hurrying out of the room. No doubt she was on her way to join Kuja in the Warrior of Light's room.

* * *

Firion stood where Kuja had left him. It had been a while since the silver genome had hurried inside, eager to rejoin his distraught little brother. Firion knew that the longer he stayed outside, the longer he remained open to attack. He also knew just as well that the moment he stepped inside, he would be made an immediate target by the evil lurking within the hospital walls. So Firion was hesitating; avoiding the obvious dilemma as he tried to determine the lesser of the two evils.

A hand suddenly clapped down over his shoulder, causing Firion to jolt and react defensively. He whirled around, ready to fight off whichever villain was behind him, and mentally took inventory of what hand-to-hand combat moves he knew best. He relaxed immediately at the sight of Kain, dressed in jeans and a fitted t-shirt as usual. By all means he appeared casual and unassuming, but Firion suspected that there was a concealed pistol or a knife somewhere on him. Kain was always armed and always prepared for the worst.

Kain smirked. "Jumpy? You should be. You need to get out of the open."

Firion sighed. "Here to take me back to Theodore's, I assume?"

"No, actually, I'm here to help," said Kain, much to Firion's astonishment. "I figured if you were so insistent on coming here, then I might as well be here to ensure your safety."

The silver-haired youth huffed. "I can take care of myself, you know that. I _am_ a warrior of Cosmos."

"I know, but there is safety in numbers. Keep friends close and such."

"All right, fine. I suppose I can't just turn you away now," Firion conceded. Then he steeled himself and strode toward the automatic doors with Kain keeping close to his shoulder. The moment he cleared the threshold, Firion could feel the tension in the air, beating a sluggish pulse around him: the Trap Master had sensed his presence, Firion had no doubt.

"Hurry," Kain hissed under his breath. He gripped Firion by the upper arm and dragged him towards the elevator. They quickened their pace, casting wary glances around the reception area and the seemingly mindless receptionist. They were a few paces away when the doors slid open. Kain halted short and Firion stumbled into his broad, unyielding shoulder.

Firion peered around Kain's bicep and cursed.

Emperor Mateus emerged from the elevator, in full armor, staff held ominously aloft, and stared directly at him with cold, sinister eyes. Firion stepped back, rapidly trying to remember where the stairs were located. He wasn't armed; he wasn't prepared to face the Emperor. He'd barely managed to regain his most prominent memories of the on-going war; he couldn't summon weapons from nothing and he couldn't access his magic. He wasn't ready to leap back into the fight, sword brandished.

"I was afraid of this," growled Kain, then he shot Firion a sharp look over his shoulder and barked, "_Run_!"

Then the air compressed itself around the blond and in an instant he was armored and a long, dark spear crackled into existence, clenched in his fist. Without a moment's hesitation, Kain launched himself at the Emperor.

Firion did as he was told and bolted across the reception area. Magic scorched the ground beneath his heels and he didn't need to look down to know that a very familiar sigil was writing itself on the tiles underfoot. Firion counted mentally in his head, felt for the telltale rise in temperature, and then threw himself forward into a sloppy summersault just as the trap exploded with white-hot fire.

When he pulled himself back to his feet, Firion nearly collided with a mass of dark purple crystal—the true form of the receptionist. He yelped and dodged around her, feeling her diamond hard fingernails scrape against the back of his neck, but he didn't let himself be distracted. He kept running.

He came upon the stairwell and launched his full weight against the door. It crashed open and the noise echoed all the way up the well, pounding harshly against both the walls and his ears. Firion didn't bother trying to barricade the door; he had nothing useful to jam it with. There was no point in wasting time trying to seal it and that time would be better spent ascending the multitude of stairs he needed to cover to reach the fifth floor.

Two stories up and Firion was panting and gasping for breath, but at least the manikin receptionist wasn't following him. He considered leaving the stairwell and finding the elevator, but his brain had already drummed up enough worst-case scenarios to keep him in the stairwell. Maybe there were other villains here waiting for him to emerge or maybe the Emperor had defeated Kain was waiting to draw him back down the first floor. Or maybe…maybe the Emperor had defeated Kain was waiting for him on the fifth floor—

Firion pushed himself faster. Kain was fine. Kain was strong. Kain wouldn't be taken down so easily. He had to get back to Cecil and make things better between them. He had to win, because he had to keep Cecil safe. Kain was fine. Kain would win. Or…at the very least, he would survive.

By the time he reached the fifth floor, Firion thought his lungs were going to burst and his legs felt ready to collapse at any given moment. Still, he pushed himself to keep moving and he didn't stop until he reached room five-oh-nine and was bursting through the door. He stumbled past a startled Kuja and doe-eyed Terra and fell into the chair at Light's bedside, immediately taking the comatose warrior's hand in his.

"Well," pursed Kuja, recovering smoothly. "Isn't this a surprise? I thought you'd be standing outside like a half-wit for much longer."

Firion didn't grace Kuja with any sort of response. He simply stared at Light's pale, blank face and he felt his heart ache in his chest. He bowed his head.

Terra crept forward and delicately placed a hand on Firion's shoulder, offering all the comfort she could.

"I remember," she said. "Mostly. There are some parts that I am still missing, but…I remember him. I remember how strong he was and how much I admired him. And I remember how much he cared for you." Firion pinched his eyes shut against a sudden rush a tears. Terra rubbed slow, soothing circles on his upper back. "He'll wake up," she continued, quiet and confident. "He'll wake up because he has to see you again."

The click of heels forewarned Kuja's approach. A familiar pendant dangled before Firion; he glanced up to see it swaying not an inch from his nose. He reached up with his free to grasp it. It was hot to the touch, but no so much that he couldn't stand holding it. Kuja released the chain and entrusted the tiny crystal entirely to Firion.

"Just moments ago, it burned so hot that no one could stand to touch it," said Kuja. "I think that was a sign foretelling his reawakening. The Warrior of Light has long since recovered all of his memories."

"All of them…?" Firion echoed; he searched Light's face for a sign of life. Hopeful.

"All of them," Kuja confirmed and he meant more than just the war and the fighting, he meant _everything_.

"That's good," the silver youth said hoarsely. "That's…that's really good."

"Yes, and now that we've had our heart-to-heart, let's get to the more important matter at hand," said Kuja, becoming brisk and businesslike. "We need to get him out of here."

"Why?" asked Firion worriedly. "Is it even safe to move him?"

"I don't see why not, and also" said Kuja, eying Firion up and down, "you look like you've just run a marathon, which leads me to believe that—"

An explosion rocked the building. Kuja and Terra barely managed to catch themselves against the railings on Light's bed; Firion braced himself in his chair. No one dared to move or speak until the shaking stopped.

"Something very bad has happened," Kuja finished plainly.

* * *

The sky continued to churn above the roof of Order's Sanctuary General Hospital. Poised at the heart of the storm clouds, was the figure of a woman, writhing and vile. She was pleased with her work so far. She'd identified nearly every one of Cosmos's warriors, even the ones in disguise, and she'd played her part in tucking two of them out of the way. The only warrior she'd yet to uncover was her own and that bothered her. It bothered her immensely. But she could wait. She was as patient as the Void was endless. She would find him and when she did, she would crush him. And until that time, she would amuse herself from her godly position in the skies, filling the space where this world's _real_ goddess was too frightened to go. She reveled in this feeling of power and mused to herself that when all was over and done with, she might like to watch it all sink to the Void from this heavenly vantage.


	9. Chapter 8 :: Blood and Revival

**Disclamation! **Dissidia: Final Fantasy © Square Enix.

**A/N: **Aaaannnnd…here it is. At last! Sorry for the wait and the brief hiatus…it was sadly necessary, but now I'm back. Hopefully it'll be for a good long time…

Warning: this chapter is bloody!

_THE MESSENGER (featuring Your Favorite Enemies) – Takeharu Ishimoto_

* * *

**The Messenger**

Chapter Eight :: Blood and Revival

Things had quickly gotten out of hand. The moment Kuja had dragged Zidane out of Bartz's cabin, the police officer interrogating Tidus had taken an abrupt turn for the worst. She went cold; the comforting smile she'd previously used to encourage the full story from Tidus had dropped in a blink and her posture went rigid and mistrustful. And if that wasn't scary enough, Tidus's own father had matched her in weird behavioral shifts. Suddenly he was straight-backed and battle ready. He ignored Kuja's request to clear away the rug in favor of pulling out the buttons of his shirt and tearing away the fabric completely as if it were restricting his movement. He cracked his knuckles.

"Charming," crooned the fake police officer, sarcasm dripping like poison from every syllable.

"What can I say," responded Jecht, equally sarcastic, "I'm a lady-killer."

With that, he lunged. The fake officer's form shimmered momentarily, her entire wardrobe shifted to something gaudy and revealing and if not for the terrible intrigue in this situation, Tidus would have averted his eyes. She waved a gloved hand and a whirl of golden light appeared before her and began spewing deep purple darts at Jecht in a continuous stream.

Tidus was frozen to couch cushions by a strange combination of awe, curiosity, and fear. All he could do was watch while his father ducked beneath the stream and was forced to take cover behind the kitchen counter.

The false officer smirked and laughed. "Such wit wasted," she taunted. "Where's your usual bravado? Do you not dare to face me? Or…" Her smirk turned to something far more sinister. "Or can you _not_? Ah, Jecht," she clicked her tongue, "have you not gained access to your powers? Has pledging your loyalty to that useless songbird, Kuja, forced you to switch sides as well? Have you really chosen the path of harmony?"

Jecht gave no response; there was only the muffled noise of him shifted his weight behind the counter. The fake officer laughed coldly.

"Pathetic," she sneered. She made to stride towards Jecht's hiding place, power crackling around her hands. There was a flash of movement and an instant later there was a thick knife embedded in the wall just above Tidus's head. He whimpered and shrunk down in the cushions.

"I may not remember everything, but I know enough," Jecht said darkly, stepping away from his hiding place.

The fake officer dropped to her knees. She brought her hands up to cradle the oozing gash torn through her side and stomach. Dark blood seeped into the cloth of her robe, staining the frayed edge of the massive rip left by the knife. She gasped, her breathing hitched, and her entire body began to tremble. She looked up in undisguised shock and horror as Jecht approached her, smug and proud. A smaller steak knife was loosely gripped in his right hand as he moved to kneel before her. The blood on the floor immediately seeped upward into the denim of Jecht's jeans, but he hardly seemed to care.

"I'm gonna make this simple, Ultimecia," he said, his voice low and mockingly gentle. "Tell me what you've done with Leonhart and I won't kill you here and now."

She laughed weakly and then winced; her hands tightened around her side, trying unsuccessfully to staunch the heavy blood flow. "What's…the point? I'll die either way."

"Yeah, but you'll be back," growled Jecht. "So you can tell me now and save us both the trouble, or I'll just come after you again."

"Oh, it's never any trouble," she whispered, her voice raspy with the labor of remaining conscious. "Though…you might encounter some explaining—ngh, _this_ to your son."

Faster than could be anticipated, Ultimecia released her side, grasped Jecht's right hand, and pulled the knife into her chest. She choked out a malicious laugh and when she tilted her head up to grin at Jecht, there was blood on her lips and between her teeth. Then she slumped lifelessly into his arms.

"Goddamn woman," snarled Jecht, pushing her body away from him and standing swiftly. He scowled down at her and Tidus watched in horror as the corpse began to glow and then disperse into quickly fading tendrils of smoke.

"D-Dad…?" Tidus stuttered, staring at his father with wide eyes. "What… What the _hell_ just happened?"

"Ah, shit," grumbled Jecht. "Listen here, kid, and don't you start crying or nothing…" Jecht cast a glance around the cabin and frowned a bit. The rug beneath his feet was stained with blood and vomit and there was a rather large butchering knife embedded three inches into the wall. "Let's get outside first. C'mon, cry baby, get a move on."

When Tidus couldn't make his muscles respond to his brain's requests, Jecht grasped him by the upper arm and hauled him to his feet. Tidus stumbled after his father as he was led out to the front porch and then leaned heavily against one of the support beams when Jecht released him. Tidus raised a shaky arm and pointed at the door, his face was pale and his voice wavered when he spoke.

"You… You just _killed_ that woman…!"

Jecht shrugged and grunted, "Yeah, well, technically she killed herself."

Tidus gaped at his father, stricken speechless.

"You saw it yourself, kid, she stabbed herself. But don't worry about it—"

"_Don't worry about it_? What…? _No_! That lady _died_, that's like…_murder_—!"

"Suicide," Jecht corrected carelessly. "And she'll be back."

"She's _dead_, Dad. _Dead_. Do you know what that means?" Tidus clawed his hands through his hairs and slid down the support beam to wooden porch floor. "What…the _hell_…is happening here?"

Jecht sighed. "Look, I know I'm not your favorite person and you'd rather be hearing all this crap from…what's-her-face, _Yune_ or something—"

"Yuna," Tidus croaked, voice suddenly dry. He hadn't seen or heard from Yuna in months. The police had long since given up on her case.

"Yeah, her," said Jecht gruffly, "Yuna. Well, she's not here, so you're stuck with me. No candy-coated version or any of that crap. Now, listen up, 'cause I'm not going to explain this twice. If Ultimecia so easily shook off the costume, then that means others have too and I, personally, would like to go check on Kuja. That boy's probably trying to pull some reckless stunt and I'd like to make sure he stays alive. So. Pay attention. Got it?"

Tidus nodded dumbly; it was all he could manage.

"Right," said Jecht, dragging Tidus to his feet and towards their car. "Now listen to me good…"

* * *

Kuja lurched into action and began barking orders.

"Terra, help Firion unhook Light from these machines. I'm going to fetch Zidane and Bartz. I'll meet you near the elevator. We'll go from there."

Kuja swept out of the room before either could protest and sprinted down the hallway. Twice or three times his spiked heels threatened to snap or, worse, twist his ankle, but there was nothing Kuja could do about it. He was a messenger, plain and simple and powerless. He possessed some very potent knowledge and had rare access to previously locked memories and the occasional spark of magic, courtesy of the goddess of harmony, but he had little else.

"Damn it all," he growled. He didn't falter in his pace; he had a long way to go. Bartz's room was unfortunately far from Light's; it was towards the end of the right-hand hallway coming off the elevator—the exact opposite direction of room five-oh-nine.

The elevator dinged and opened just as Kuja ran by, he started at the unexpected motion and brought his fists up in defense. Kuja detested hand-to-hand combat, but he wasn't above it in a desperate situation such as this.

The man in the elevator stepped forward.

Kuja scowled and dropped his hands. "I see you haven't been _killed_, Kain. Good."

Kain smirked. "I'm not so easily defeated. My apologies for shaking the building, it was necessary to bring down the Emperor."

"Oh, yes, that's all very well," Kuja said quickly. "Run along to Light's room and help the others now."

Kain nodded curtly and soon vanished down the left-hand hallway. Kuja took advantage of the moment's pause; he yanked off his boots and socks, discarded them, and then carried on towards Bartz's room barefoot. The floor was cold and hard beneath the pads of his feet and his footsteps were marked with the naked slaps of skin on tile; it was a noise that echoed faintly off the walls.

Kuja didn't slow until he reached his destination. He didn't knock or warn Zidane of his arrival, he simply let himself into the room and allowed the door to slam behind him. Zidane leaped to his feet, startled; he reminded Kuja vaguely of a frightened animal, wide-eyed and breathing heavy.

Zidane settled down when he recognized his older brother.

"Shit, Kuj, way to give me a heart attack!" he said. He seemed to be in a lighter mood since Kuja last saw him, which was to be expected really—he'd been allowed a generous amount of time to think and calm himself. Zidane frowned a little bit. "Why'd the whole building shake and…huh? What happened to your shoes?"

"I took them off," Kuja said briskly, he staggered forward and began to search the heart monitor for an off switch. "We don't have time to waste, help me disconnect Bartz from these machines."

"What?" Zidane cut Kuja off, shoving the silver-haired man back with as much force as he could muster. "No way!"

Kuja surged forward again only be caught up on Zidane's grasp; Kuja brought his own hands up and dug his fingernails into his little brother's elbows. He leaned into the power struggle, equalized it, then pulled backwards and offset Zidane's balance, making his brother meet his stare.

"Zidane," he said through clenched teeth. "It's no longer safe here. We have to get out and we can't leave Bartz behind, now can we?"

"Not safe…? This is a _hospital_."

"It's been compromised," Kuja said curtly. He slipped past Zidane and felt around the back of the monitor for that switch. When he couldn't find one, he muttered, "Screw it," and set about removing all the cords and wires from Bartz's chest and hand. He hesitated for a moment when faced with the intubation, but quickly steeled himself and pulled the tubing free as gently as possible. The machinery began to beep and sing wildly, but no nurses came in response. Kuja turned and snapped at his brother, "Are you strong enough to carry him?"

Zidane stammered and stared at Kuja helplessly. Kuja rolled his eyes, "Just get the door then."

"Right," Zidane said faintly.

Kuja slid his arms under Bartz's knees and chest and carefully lifted the younger man from the bed. Bartz weighed very little, he was skinny and probably slightly malnourished after a week of stress and running around. Kuja bit his lower lip and concentrated on not accidentally bumping into anything while carrying the injured man. Their progress down the hall was slow, too slow for Kuja's liking, but at the very least it seemed to be meditative for Zidane.

"Okay…so I was thinking while you were visiting Light…" said Zidane.

"Yes…?" said Kuja, beginning to breathe a little heavier.

Zidane cast him a worried look, but continued with his train of thought nonetheless. "Yeah, and I think I'm starting to figure things out."

"Good…"

"Uh-huh. So this Calais person, you know her and clearly you know her a lot better than I do. I mean, I've never even met the lady. And she went on to Bartz talking about warriors and memories. At first, that all seemed like crazy-talk; I mean, I seriously wondered if maybe drugs were involved here somehow."

"Did you now?"

"Yeah, I did. But not anymore."

"Why's that?"

"Because it's all starting to make sense to me. Terra said she was remembering things after that whole bit with the necklace and Bartz's showed me that note where Calais said to remember everything because memories are dangerous. And it's obvious now that you know a heck of a lot more than anyone about what's going on, so you _must_ have all these special memories she was talking about. I mean, you said you were a 'messenger of the gods,' which you seriously need to explain better, _by the way_, so it'd make sense for you to have some 'higher knowledge' or whatever."

Zidane paused to let this sink in.

"You thought about all of this while sitting with Bartz," said Kuja, mildly impressed. "For someone in position of such little information, you've done quite well."

"Uh, thanks…?"

Kuja chuckled a little, "You're welcome."

"I also can't help but feel like nothing's _normal_," Zidane continued.

"How do you mean?" asked Kuja. "Because, really, when did anything seem _normal_ to begin with?"

"Point taken, but what I mean is that…there's gotta be some kind of _greater power_, y'know? Like…we need people with superpowers in here to shake things up. This has all got to add up to something _epic_, so where's the super-strength and awesomeness?"

Kuja chuckled breathily; his arms were growing sore and his lower back ached, but that didn't stop him from laughing at the irony of everything Zidane just said.

"What?" Zidane said indignantly. "Why are you laughing?"

"Because," Kuja replied, voice quavering with amusement. "Because I cannot believe your ignorance."

"What's that supposed to mean?" demanded the younger brother.

"I can't help but wonder how you managed to get by without _noticing_."

"Noticing _what_?"

"That." Kuja jutted his chin forward. They had reached the elevator.

Zidane's jaw dropped.

There stood Kain in full dragoon armor, spear mounted on his back and dragon's head helm tucked under his arm. He stood out like a medieval beacon in the company of Terra, still in her volunteer nurse outfit, and Firion, still in his civilian jeans and t-shirt, cradling the still comatose Warrior of Light in his arms.

"Oh man…" whispered Zidane. "That is _awesome_." He stepped closer, looking up at Kain in awe, and then he frowned a little bit. He recognized this man, but…where from? "Oh my god, aren't you Cecil's boyfriend?"

Kain laughed deep from his chest and nodded. "Indeed, I am."

"Well, shit, does he know about this?"

"Yes, he does," Kain said, a little more solemn and a little less amused. Then he snapped his attention to Kuja. "Allow me to take him from here." He replaced his helm and strode forward, crouched to meet Kuja's more petite stature, and carefully transferred Bartz to his own arms.

"Now what?" asked Firion. He had Light's arm slung over his shoulders and was holding the man close to his chest; he seemed determined not to let anyone else carry him.

"Stairs would be a bad idea," Kain pointed out needlessly and was instantly met with Kuja's flat, unimpressed stare.

"Anyone could be in the lobby waiting for us," Terra said quietly. "Taking the elevator would be like walking into a trap."

"While that is very true, dear," agree Kuja, thoughtful, "I'd much rather take the elevator and be prepared for the worst, than to take the stairs and be exhausted by the time we reach the bottom. That, I think, would make us more vulnerable than being stuck in an elevator."

Kuja cast his gaze over the odd assortment of people around him; his gaze briefly paused on his prized boots lying carelessly in a corner and then stopped when his eyes locked with Firion's.

"There's just one thing that I don't understand," he muttered, musing mostly to himself.

"What's that?" Firion asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

"The Emperor has been here all this time and he's replaced the staff with manikins if those scratches on your neck are anything to judge by. Further, the Warrior of Light has been here for quite some time as well, completely indisposed and vulnerable. So why is he still alive? It doesn't seem like the Emperor or _anyone_ even so much as touched him in all the time that he was here. _Why_? It makes no sense."

The warriors were silent, all pondering this question and struggling to find an answer.

"Maybe…" Zidane spoke up and then cut himself off. All attention snapped to the small blond, all waiting for him to continue his thought. Zidane frowned a little to himself, he opened his mouth, closed it, and then said, "Maybe they _couldn't_."

"Couldn't?" repeated Kain. "Are you suggesting that something physically prevented them from touching him?"

Zidane shrugged. "I dunno, maybe. He'd been holding that necklace all that time, right? They wanted it, but they couldn't get it and as long as he had it, they couldn't touch him to make him let go…"

"But once it was gone, they didn't need him," Terra continued. "They just left him be. They don't care for him, just that necklace…"

"But he's still their enemy," said Kuja. "So why did they leave him alive when they _could_ touch him?" Kuja growled to himself, glanced sharply from face to face and then punched the down button for the elevator. "I don't like this," he said darkly. "This doesn't feel right."

The elevator doors slid open, gaping like vertical jaws into a wide, vacant mouth. The seven entered carefully, Terra pressed the button for the lobby, and then they waited in silence as the elevator descended slowly and silently.

Zidane broke the silence with a dry snort. "This is ridiculously suspenseful, don't you think? The music could at least be playing to, I dunno, ease the tension?"

"Please," said Kuja, rolling his eyes, "I'm surprised the elevator is even still functioning." He sent a brief glare at Kain, who only smirked and tilted his chin upward.

As if to prove Kuja wrong, the lift shuddered violently. The seven warriors stumbled and caught themselves on the walls and each other. Firion fell gracelessly to his knees, Light spilled out of his arms and onto the floor. He cursed and hurried to scoop up the unconscious warrior before more potential damage could be done. Kain had to brace his legs slightly apart and lean his back against the wall. Bartz was jostled about in his arms and a fresh spot of redness blossomed from his stomach; Kain grimaced.

When the elevator stuttered to a halt, he said grimly, "We need to get Bartz out of here."

Zidane staggered to his feet and closer to Kain, his hands fluttered uselessly over Bartz's limp form. "This was a bad idea," he fretted. "This was a terrible idea! Why did I agree to this?"

"Because there was no other option," snapped Kuja. "We need to get him to a more secure location."

"Yeah? And where's that?" Zidane demanded.

"Not our apartment, it's too small and too close to town…" muttered Kuja, thinking aloud. "Bartz's cabin has been discovered"—he met Kain's eye—"Ultimecia was posing as an officer, I left her there with Jecht and his kid, hopefully they've both made it out…" Kuja let out a shaky sigh. "We'll have to go to the country house. I don't think any pawn of Chaos knows of it."

"And how will we get there?" asked Firion. He had shrugged Light back into a comfortable hold and Terra was worriedly checking them both for bruising.

"My car is out in the lot," said Kuja. "We'll use it if we have to, though if anyone here remembers how to teleport that would be wonderful."

Firion's brow creased. "Can't you? That's how I got here…you came to the country house and teleported us here."

Kuja ducked his head, frustrated with himself. "Yes, I did. Unfortunately, I have only minimal access to my magic and I used it all up in getting you here. There was no way I could have foreseen this drastic turn of events. Obviously the Emperor was going to give you trouble, but I did not think he would go ahead and _reveal_ himself… In short, I am powerless again."

Zidane looked at his brother in awe. "You can teleport?"

Kuja smirked. "If I were at full power, I could even fly."

"Dude…that's awesome."

"It is, isn't it," purred Kuja.

"Anyway," Firion said loudly. He pushed his way a little closer to Kuja. "You're powerless, Zidane is still in awe of the _concept_, Terra has barely regained her memory, and I'm just about as useless. We've got two injured comrades and _one_ escape vehicle. The odds are stacked against us."

"I'm not powerless," interjected Kain.

"But we can't really expect you to be our only defense," reasoned Firion. "I'm sorry Kain, but only one fighter isn't going to mean much if the Emperor is out there with a small army of manikins."

"Point taken," Kain conceded.

"Let's at least see where we are," said Zidane. "Someone help me get these doors open."

Kuja and Terra came forward immediately and together, the three of them managed to pry the doors apart. The elevator had halted halfway to the lobby, offering just enough space for the leaner members of the group to slip easily through. It was a process made tedious by the transfer of Light and Bartz—especially Bartz.

Kuja slid through first, bending backwards and feet-first so that he was facing the open lobby when he was free of the lift. It was empty. He reached back into the elevator and snapped his fingers twice, rapidly, telling his companions to hurry up. Zidane popped out immediately, bouncing on the balls of his feet and flipping around to survey the room for himself.

"Hold on, Terra, I'm sending Light through," came Firion's muffled voice.

Light's bare feet appeared through the gap, then his pale legs and the wrinkled cotton of his trousers. Kuja reached out to grasp the unconscious man's legs as Firion and Terra guided his upper body out of the elevator. Zidane bounded forward and took hold of Light's torso and shoulders as the rest of his body was lowered; together, the brothers carried Light out of the way of the lift and leaned him carefully against a wall. His head lolled about his shoulders and for one passing instant, Zidane thought he saw Light's expression twitch.

Firion leaped down into the lobby moments later and went immediately to Light's side.

Next was Bartz. Zidane was on board to help in a flash, scooping one arm under Bartz's legs as they appeared and then under his shoulders as they too were slid through. Zidane laid Bartz down flat next to Firion and Light and remained crouching beside him. He suddenly wished he knew more about these alleged powers that the others supposedly possessed and wondered if maybe someone knew how to heal; that would be a miracle beyond all miracles.

Terra came to kneel beside him; she fussed with Bartz's bandages, but without proper supplies and training, there was little she could do. The red was becoming more pronounced across Bartz's midsection and his jaw was slackened and his mouth slightly swollen from where Kuja had removed the intubation. Zidane ran a gentle hand over Bartz's cheek, he couldn't go much further due to the soft neck brace, but even that simple motion was enough to make him realize…

"He's not breathing."

Firion and Terra looked up sharply, even Kuja heard him over the sounds of metal scraping on metal as Kain attempted to escape the elevator. Kain paused in his actions, still caught halfway between the gap, and craned his neck to stare incredulously at Zidane. His awkward position would have been comical if not for direness of the situation.

"What," Kuja said flatly.

"He's…he's not breathing," Zidane repeated numbly, his vision was beginning to blur. "He's not breathing."

"No, no, no…" muttered Kuja, he almost sounded angry. He pushed forward and dropped to his knees in front of Bartz, nudging Terra out of the way as he did so. "No, no, he can't…"

Kuja took up Bartz's bandage-less arm and pressed the pads of fingers to his inner wrist, searching for a pulse. His face was set in stony concentration for a long, terrible moment, and then he sighed.

"He's not dead, but he's not breathing," Kuja said, snarky. He sat back on his heels and pressed his palms together low in his lap, he tucked his chin to his chest and grumbled in a scathing tone, "If there was ever a time for the Goddess to smile at me, _now_ would be it."

He glanced briefly heavenward as if making a hasty apology.

"Cure…" he hissed. "C'mon…cure, cure, _cure_."

A sudden screech of metal made them all jump, but Kuja was not easily deterred. He glared at Kain and then resumed his prayer. Kain kneeled beside him, placed one hand on his knee and the other on Kuja's shoulder, and bowed his head.

"_Cure_," they both whispered in unison.

Then Terra joined in; she crouched at Kuja's other side, facing him and cupping a hand over Kuja's while the other lay, feather-light, on Bartz's upper arm. She closed her eyes and chanted with them. Moments later, Firion came to sit at Zidane's side, he offered his palm to the blond and, together, they bowed their heads, closed their eyes, and laid their free hands on Bartz's chest and abdomen.

In perfect sync, the five warriors inhaled, exhaled, and murmured, "_Cure_."

Perhaps Zidane and Firion and Terra were only helpful by means of moral support, but whatever they had done was successful. A pure, soothing green light emitted from between Kuja's hands and from under the palm Kain had placed on Kuja's shoulder. The light danced over Kuja's body, congealed around his hands, and then flowed forth over Bartz's broken form.

Zidane watched in awe through half-lidded eyes and couldn't contain a slight gasp as the green light sunk beneath the bandages that held his friend together.

When all the light disappeared, Kuja inhaled sharply and suddenly as if taking his first, needy breaths after a long time spent submerged under water. Kuja fell backwards and sat heavily, a hand came up to grip his chest as he sucked in oxygen with a strange desperation. Terra fluttered to his side and brushed away the hair clinging to his face, trying to help however she could.

"What did you do…?" Zidane whispered, awestruck.

"Fixed…his lung," gasped Kuja, grimacing and allowing Terra to help him into a more upright sitting position. "Is he breathing?"

Zidane crouched down over his best friend, hovered a hand over his mouth and felt for a breath. There was pause during which he felt nothing, and then warm air trickled through his fingers. Zidane grinned and slouched with relief, leaning close over Bartz and pressing their foreheads together. Tears squeezed between his closed lids and dripped onto Bartz's cheeks.

"Good," said Kuja, still breathless. "That's good. He'll survive."

* * *

_Ring… Ring… Ring… Ring—_**click.**

_"Hey, what's up? …Uh-huh. …Yeah. …Hey, hold that thought, I'm not actually here right now, so leave a message and I'll get back to you A.S.A.P. so we can continue this _wonderful_ conversation! Thanks!"_ **Beep.**


	10. Chapter 9 :: A Promise Made in Blood

**Disclamation! **Dissidia: Final Fantasy © Square Enix.

**A/N:** Let me just say right now that I am so, _so_ sorry!

_THE MESSENGER (featuring Your Favorite Enemies) – Takeharu Ishimoto_

* * *

**The Messenger**

Chapter Nine :: A Promise Made in Blood…

"We must get moving soon," Kain said urgently. He was looking worriedly toward the wide glass doors at the front of the hospital; outside the sky was darkening steadily and the clouds overhead were dangerously thick.

"He's right," Kuja said softly. He pulled himself to his feet as if to further the sense of urgency; he wavered, but refused Terra's offer of assistance. "It's getting late and we have a long way to travel."

Firion nodded shortly and resumed his hold on the Warrior of Light. Zidane sat back from Bartz and watched quietly as Kain gently scooped him up, and then the blond bounced to his feet and shook out his arms. He was trying to loosen himself up, trying to shake off the weight of emotion, just long enough to make it out of the hospital and to whatever location they had decided on.

The lobby was in ruins; the crushed reception desk had the distinct imprint of a human body down its center, sparking cables dangled from the ceiling, broken light bulbs littered the floor with glass, and the ground was marked with pits and small craters. Here and there were gleaming shards of shattered crystal; no doubt these were the remains of the hospital staff.

Kuja and Zidane walked a few paces ahead of the others, pushing aside masses of rubble and clearing a path around the craters to the front door. Kain followed first with Terra shadowing him closely, worrying about Bartz's still-feeble condition, and lastly came Firion and Light.

It took a grueling amount of time to cross the lobby; each splatter of water from a broken pipe and every groan of broken boards underfoot caused the warriors to jump and scan for danger. They were on edge, their nerves were so frayed they were nearly nonexistent, and the addition of two compromised comrades was a heavy emotional stressor.

* * *

Jecht drove with a heavy foot on the gas and hands gripped, white-knuckled, around the steering wheel. His expression was set firm; the thin line of his mouth and a small crease between his eyes were the only indicators of his grim mood.

"Dad…?" Tidus said, quietly, cautiously. "Are you…all right?" They had been silent ever since Jecht had finished explaining their unique situation; Tidus had used that time to absorb all the information he'd been dumped with, to think it over and set it straight in his brain and then…it had all made sense. Even now, if Tidus concentrated hard enough, he could feel the faintest tingling of magic in his blood.

"I don't know what to expect when we get there," Jecht said stiffly, glancing briefly at his son.

Tidus nodded mutely and stared down at his hand, curling and uncurling it in his lap. He could almost feel something…tangible, something solid, waiting at his fingertips, but he wasn't entirely sure of _what_…

* * *

The automatic doors no longer operated, but that hardly mattered because the glass had been shattered. The warriors stepped through the empty frames and onto a plain of glass coated pavement. Kuja grimaced and watched his feet, still bare of shoes and socks, and suddenly he wished he'd bothered to reclaim his boots when he'd had the chance. But more than that, he wished he had the power to fly; he somehow felt as though he'd taken that particular ability for granted all those times he'd used it frivolously or thoughtlessly. He resigned himself to knowing there was nothing he could do to help his current predicament other than to grit his teeth and get by.

The soles of Kuja's feet were, for obvious reasons, very soft; he always wore shoes and he always flew wherever and whenever he could. Even in this strange, magic-less dimension, he rarely walked when he could help it; he supposed that if he were guilty of any sin it would be sloth. He was a lazy, indulgent creature and he was gifted with a partner who, despite all tough-guy bravado, allowed himself to be sweet-talked. With every step taken across the shattered glass, the more Kuja wished for one of three things: his boots, his ability, or his boyfriend to carry him.

Kuja gasped when a particularly large sliver pierced the arch of his foot and when he looked down a trickle of blood was oozing onto the pavement.

"Shit," he cursed; he was steadily becoming more frustrated and angry as the day dragged on and it was not ending well for him. "God damn it all."

Kuja reached out and grasped Zidane's shoulder, using his younger brother for support as he rolled his injured foot onto the side and continued to hobble across the pavement. His car, a decent sized SUV, was parked hastily in front of the hospital, waiting in a no-parking zone marked with diagonal yellow lines; Kuja had hardly cared for parking zones when he'd rushed Zidane to the hospital and it wasn't as though there was any real staff to get after him for it.

"You all right?" Zidane asked, wrapping an arm around Kuja's waist for further support.

"Fine," huffed the silver brother through clenched teeth. "Keep moving."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

Kuja carefully but quickly put down the ball of his injured foot, feeling the jagged edges for more splinters slicing into his flesh, and took a long step forward with other foot regardless of the pain. Almost immediately he let out a sharp yell and would have gone to his knees had Zidane not been there to hold him up.

"Come on, I'll carry you," Zidane said insistently, maneuvering to scoop up his brother. But Kuja bit his lip and refused, expression stony.

"No, keep moving. We'll get there faster if we just keep moving." He tried to take another step, but the blond didn't move with him and hindered any potential progress.

"Yeah? And who's gonna drive if you can't use your feet?" demanded Zidane.

"I will," said Kain, skirting around them. "We need to keep moving." He strode briskly onward towards Kuja's car, Firion and Light close behind him; both were likely eager to put down their respective burdens and get to the safety of the country house. Terra came up on Kuja's other side and pulled his arm over her shoulders, she smiled sweetly and with such honesty that Kuja could bear to refuse her assistance. The Goddess knew he desperately needed it, even if he was reluctant to admit so.

With someone on either side, Kuja was able to reach his car and unlock it for the others. Terra and Zidane left him to sit on the hood while they went to help Kain and Firion; Kuja stared warily at the hospital and the surrounding lot, searching for any possible sign of danger.

"There are seven of us," figured Firion, "and the car seats five…"

"We can lay Bartz in the trunk, it's big enough and it's flat so it won't be too bad on his back… I'll sit with him to keep him steady," said Zidane authoritatively, taking charge quite impressively. "Terra and Firion will sit in the backseat, holding Light. Kain, you drive, and Kuja will have shotgun."

Zidane didn't wait for anyone to approve or disapprove of this plan, he simply went ahead and opened up the trunk, climbing in and looking expectantly at Kain. Kain lurched into action, gently laying Bartz down so that he lay diagonally with his head cushioned on Zidane's crossed legs. As they began to situate Firion and Light into the backseat, Kuja concerned himself with inspecting the glass protruding from the soles of his feet; some of the larger pieces could be easily removed, but others were embedded too deeply to reach without tweezers and would likely need stitching. Kuja bent his head and bit his tongue as he set to work removing what debris he could, concentrating all his energy on being as neat and efficient as possible so as to not further damage his feet.

And then the unthinkable happened.

* * *

The brakes screeched and the seatbelt tightened automatically over Tidus's chest, it served as the only thing preventing him from being launched through the windshield. Nevertheless, Tidus could _feel_ the muscles pulling uncomfortably in his neck and he knew that once the adrenaline wore off, the whiplash would be unbearable. He snapped back into his seat, head bouncing against the headrest, and he found himself facing forward and with a plain view of what had caused Jecht to stop so harshly.

A dark funnel cloud, made black by the dimming twilight, had appeared in the middle of the road. As Tidus watched, the clouds and the wind seemed to convulse and condense and pulse like a tar-filled heart. The funnel began to thin suddenly, shrinking into a slimmer column and then taking on a human-like form.

"What is _that_?" Tidus asked. He wasn't nearly as surprised as he probably ought to be, but after hearing the tale of an epic war between gods from his father and especially after knowing the story was _true_, nothing was really surprising anymore. Tidus assumed this was one of those villains he'd been told about and vaguely wondered who this one correlated to. Still, he wasn't entirely sure how to react to this bizarre phenomenon.

Jecht grumbled curse words under his breath. More audibly he said, "I don't have time for this bullshit."

He pumped the gas and the car bulleted forward, tearing through the cloud and jolting only slightly as the hood struck the hazy, woman-like figure. Tidus flinched; there was a sound uncomfortably similar to that of something heavy rolling over the roof and when Tidus looked out the back window, a woman lay strew across the asphalt.

"Are you _shitting_ me?" he said, incredulous. "You've been involved of the death of two women today."

"Meh," Jecht shrugged, still sour. "They were both bitches anyway. The world's better off without them."

Tidus just sat back in his seat and sighed.

* * *

The Emperor, body ragged and clothing torn, rose from the ground and wrapped a golden-gloved hand around Kuja's throat. He lifted the silver genome and threw him bodily away from the vehicle. Kuja tumbled over the glass and loosened chunks of pavement and then limply came to a halt, lying on his stomach with his forehead pressed to the ground.

Kain, Firion, and Terra yelled and scrambled from the car, moving into a defensive position; Kain in particular had his lance drawn and at the ready in the blink of an eye. A moment later, Zidane had extracted himself from the trunk and was rushing towards Kuja.

"No, no," crooned the Emperor, waving his staff lazily. A large sigil appeared in the air, inches from Zidane's face. Zidane stopped short and staggered backwards. He didn't know what this thing was, but he knew it could not be anything good.

"Don't touch it, Zidane," Kain instructed in a low, serious tone; he didn't take his eyes away from the Emperor. "What do you want?"

"Nothing," purred the Emperor. "Nothing at all. I just want to thank Kuja for a job well done."

"What are you talking about?" Kuja, hissing in pain, drew himself up into sitting position, resting most of his weight on his hip and one hand splayed out on the ground. He felt something tickle at his hairline and when he touched his free hand to the spot, his fingers came back smeared with blood.

"Why, this little set-up right here, of course," said the Emperor; his voice was like black silk, smooth and cultured and pitched just so that a lie could not be distinguished from the truth. "It worked out just as planned, didn't it now. We have successfully trapped six Cosmos warriors, ready for execution."

"Kuja wouldn't do that," snapped Zidane. The Emperor immediately set his sights on the blond genome.

"Oh, he wouldn't?" said the Emperor in a sickly, velvety voice. "Didn't you ever notice how…_different_ he's been since he returned from 'college'? Have you not wondered about all the secrets he's _obviously_ been keeping? Have you ever wondered about that voice in the background whenever you called him and why he always refused to say who it was? You've always known he never spent a minute of his time on 'college work,' but did you ever find out what he was _really_ doing?"

Zidane's determined expression faltered. The Emperor was playing on every doubt Zidane had ever had about his brother. It was a type of manipulation that he had long since perfected.

"No…" the young blond whispered, so quietly he almost couldn't be heard. "I never did…"

"Of course not," continued the Emperor, alight with the sick pleasure of his trickery. "Why would he tell you his plans to entrap and destroy your friends and companions? Every minute that Kuja did not spend on his college education, he spent with _me_"—the Emperor glanced at Kuja with an almost _sultry_ expression that made Kuja's stomach churn unpleasantly—"plotting this very chain of events. It all worked out very nicely, didn't it, Kuja. I am very impressed with your performance."

"You lying cockroach, I did no such thing," Kuja said harshly, but he was beginning to feel weak from blood loss and the stress was getting to him. He was losing his strength.

The Emperor laughed darkly. "There's no need to continue the act now, my pet."

Kuja's expression went slack; all color drained from his face. He couldn't believe this. He looked feebly to Zidane and the others and something shattered inside him. There was anger in the faces of Kain and Firion, sadness in Terra, but the utter betrayal shining in his little brother's eyes was too much for him to bear.

"Kuja…" Zidane murmured, hurt beyond measure. "Is that true? Did you set us up?"

"_No_," Kuja whispered, voice strained in his exhaustion. "Never."

Zidane's face pinched as he fought to contain a wave of tears, he shook his head and turned away from his brother. "I'm not sure if I should believe you…"

"Zidane, _please_—"

Kain scowled and said bitterly, "I can't believe I ever trusted you. I should have known better."

"Why would you believe _him_ over me?" demanded Kuja. "What merit does the _Emperor_ have that I don't?" When this garnered no response, Kuja pressed on. "I'm sorry I never fully explained myself, but you never _asked_. You never _asked_ me what I was doing all those times. If you had, I probably would have told you, but I honestly did not think it was such a big deal."

"Silence, Kuja," barked the Emperor. "There's no need to twist their hearts further. Even _I_ am not so cruel as to torment them in such a manner."

"_Cease_ with the noise," Kuja shouted. "I am tired of your drivel!"

The Emperor's expression went black with anger.

"What were you doing then?" Zidane asked, glancing only barely in his brother's direction. The hurt and betrayal was still visible in his bright blue eyes.

"I was with Jecht, Tidus's father," Kuja replied, grabbing his attempt to recover his younger sibling's trust. "We were trying to figure out how to help you without too much interference. I wanted you to do this on your own, because…really, it's something best done on your own."

"And was Jecht the voice in the background all those times?"

"_Silence_," hissed the Emperor, but Kuja paid him no mind and answered Zidane regardless.

"_Yes_, it was. That was him. Tidus probably told you he's been of shorter temper, but that's only because he's exhausted. We _all_ are."

"If you won't quiet down, I will be forced to _make_ you," growled the Emperor and without any further warning, he raised his staff above his head and then brought the butt end cracking down on the pavement. Seconds later, a wide sigil drew itself beneath Kuja's battered, bleeding body.

Kuja went numb. He stared down at the harshly glowing purple lines of the emblem and watched helplessly as countless violet orbs, gleaming with white-hot heat at every center, arose on the perimeter. And he knew he couldn't escape. He was too weak. The soles of his feet were in shreds and he was covered, head to toe, in cuts and bruises and he was certain that his ankle had been twisted when the Emperor threw him. He couldn't run out of the sigil; he couldn't even _stand_. He looked over at Zidane, standing with his mouth gaping and his eyes full of horror. The others stood behind him, conflicted, not knowing if they ought to save their comrade or allow a traitor to be righteously terminated. Kuja did not blame them. He understood that he had been secretive and he knew well the Emperor's ability to use words to play on others' doubts for his own benefit.

"Zidane," he said softly, with as much honesty as he could muster. "I am sorry."

Zidane did not reply and Kuja did not blame him.

He barely heard the screech of tires and the surprised yells of the others, he barely registered the familiar shape of the man he loved surging forward, and he barely noticed how the Emperor's tall form suddenly crumpled as the orbs around him exploded. All Kuja could hear or register or notice was the blinding white that encompassed his vision and the blistering heat that enveloped him.

* * *

Jecht screeched into the hospital parking lot in a rage; he didn't need any time to take in the scene before him to understand what was happening. It was just as he'd suspected, just as he'd feared, and damn it if it didn't piss him off like nothing else could! He tore the keys from the ignition without bothering to put the car in park; his focus was solely on the Emperor and the vindictive laughter in his eyes and his voice. As much as he would have loved to leap onto the sigil and attempt a heroic stunt to save Kuja, he knew it was impossible. The orbs were already glowing with pre-explosion heat by the time he'd arrived and as he made his move towards the Emperor, they detonated.

All Jecht could see was red.

The red hazed his vision, boiled in his veins, and infected his brain. Before he could fully think about what he was doing, he was gouging out the Emperor's throat with the teeth of his car keys. The Emperor crumbled to the ground clutching at his neck and slowly choking to death on his own blood. Jecht left him to die as the blaze of the explosion faded away.

He dropped his bloodied keys as he hurried to the place where Kuja lay curled on his side, clothing singed around the edges and skin burned to blackish red. Jecht went to his knees at Kuja's side and, as gently as he could, rolled the younger man onto his back. Kuja's body was smoking; the gray tendrils wisped upward and faded quickly.

Tidus crept out of the car and joined the others in their tentative approach towards Jecht and Kuja. Kain was stone faced and unreadable, Terra had her hands cupped over her mouth as she cried silently, and Firion was grim faced with sorrow. Zidane had sunk to his knees next to the back of Kuja's SUV, leaning against the rear tire; he felt hollow, drained of all energy. He couldn't even muster of the strength to react to the murder of his own brother; he just…_couldn't_.

Jecht smoothed the blackened hair from Kuja's burned face, even that feather-light touch stirred up a small cloud of smoke and he drew back immediately. He growled under his breath; he could kill the Emperor again a thousand times and he still wouldn't feel that Kuja was sufficiently avenged. That man was lower than the scum of the Earth and Jecht _hated_ him.

A sharp intake drew Jecht's attention back down to Kuja. The younger man had opened his eyes and was gazing directly up at Jecht. He smiled faintly, his jaw dropped slightly as if he were attempting to speak, and tried to raise one hand; Jecht automatically took that hand in his. Kuja's skin dissipated like ash in his palm and the smoke drifted at a more constant rate. Kuja sighed softly and his eyes slid shut.

And then, all at once, his body dispersed and disappeared.

Jecht's now empty hand clenched into a fist. He let out an angry yell and punched his fist onto the pavement with enough power to leave a sizeable dent. Tidus approached his father carefully, taking slow, predictable steps; the last thing he wanted was to startle Jecht and accidentally cause his own demise. He crouched at an arm's distance from Jecht and kept his posture as unassuming as possible.

"He'll be back," Tidus said quietly. "Just like with Ultimecia. Just like you told me in the car. He'll always be back unless Zidane is the one who kills him." Tidus glanced back at the young genome, still leaning helplessly against the rear tire of the SUV. "And I don't think he's capable of that."

Jecht rose abruptly, unsteadily, to his feet and marched towards the Emperor's body; the man wasn't quite dead, he was still wheezing and choking and becoming paler with every failed breath. The larger man squatted ominously over him.

"You're going to die," Jecht told him plainly. "You're going to die and eventually, I don't know when, but eventually you will come back to life. When you do, I will find you. I will _find_ you and I will kill you again and again and again and however many times it takes for me to feel satisfied. Because you don't want to know how _fucking_ angry I am right now. And don't for a moment think that I am bluffing, because I'm not. I will murder you a thousand times over and when I'm done, I'll make sure you _stay_ dead."

The Emperor's eyes widened in horror; he couldn't speak or protest or defend himself, he could only lay and watch as Jecht, cool and calm, wrapped a hand around his neck and began to squeeze. It was over in a minute. The smoke began to rise from the Emperor's body, primarily from the crushed remains of his windpipe and then spread to consume the rest of him and soon he, too, was gone.

Jecht wasted no time. He stood in a brisk, businesslike manner and wiped the blood from his hand onto the leg of his jeans. He realized what kind of sight he must be: bare-chested and dressed only in blood-soaked jeans. He was probably a fairly terrifying sight. He didn't care.

"Where's Bartz?" he demanded.

"Laid out in the trunk," Kain answered immediately, sensing the no-nonsense air about the other man.

"Someone go sit with him," ordered Jecht. "You're driving, I assume."

"Yes, I am," the dragoon answered promptly.

Jecht nodded curtly. "Make sure Zidane's all right. Drive behind me, don't lose track of my car, I don't care if that means you need to tailgate, just follow me." Jecht turned on his heel and marched back to his car, snapping for Tidus to hurry up when his son didn't immediately follow.

"Where are we going?" Firion asked nervously.

"The country house," Jecht said shortly. "It's the only place where Bartz can be treated properly. Now get moving!"

The others jumped into the action. Firion hauled Zidane to his feet and guided him back to his previous position with Bartz, and then he settled in the backseat with Light's head cradled in his own lap. Terra slid into shotgun, wiping the moisture from her eyes and was quiet while Kain opened the driver's door. He paused only for a moment upon realizing that Kuja had never handed over the keys, but he said nothing of it. Instead, he wordlessly went about hot-wiring the car and then adjusted the seat and the mirrors to his liking. The car was silent as Kain nudged the gas and followed Jecht out of the hospital parking lot.

In the other vehicle, Jecht drove with a heavy foot on the gas and hands gripped, white-knuckled, around the steering wheel. His expression was set firm; the thin line of his mouth and a small crease between his eyes were the only indicators of his grim mood.

"Dad…?" Tidus said, quietly, cautiously. "Are you…all right?"

Jecht didn't answer; he drove on through the night in a blaze of headlights.

* * *

_Ring… Ring… Ring… Ring—_**click.**

"_Hey, what's up? …Uh-huh. …Yeah. …Hey, hold that thought, I'm not actually here right now, so leave a message and I'll get back to you A.S.A.P. so we can continue this _wonderful_ conversation! Thanks!"_ **Beep.**


	11. Chapter 10 :: Awakening

**Disclamation! **Dissidia: Final Fantasy © Square Enix.

**A/N:** Everything that has happened since chapter four has been over the course of a single day. That was a _long_ day.

And, once again, I'm and _so_ sorry for the delay! My return to writing this story was poorly timed with my summer vacation to an island with no Internet connection—well, I did have Internet if I sat in one specific spot and stole from the neighbors. But doesn't really help if you don't have your laptop, which I didn't. To those I messaged, as you already know, I used my iPod for rather limited access to this site. Also, I spent a lot of time on the plane—which was a six-hour flight in both directions—playing Duodecim and generally zoning out to mentally write this story. I am set to rock and roll!

_THE MESSENGER (featuring Your Favorite Enemies) – Takeharu Ishimoto_

* * *

**The Messenger**

Chapter Ten :: Awakening

Squall was hungry. More than that, he was _starving_. He hadn't eaten in two days. The last thing he remembered was dropping Bartz and Zidane off at Bartz's cabin after talking to Cloud and then…nothing. He had blinked and found himself in the creepiest basement in the history of creepy basements. The only reason he knew he'd been down there for two days was because of the small, barred window pressed against the ceiling that let in a miniscule amount of light. It was too high up for him to reach, so he couldn't use it to figure out where he was in a broader sense than just _'in a basement'_ and even then, it was probably too narrow to properly see though anyway.

He looked down at the near-dead cell phone in his hand. The woman who had taken him had clearly not thought to check him for any sort of devices that might help him to escape, but in the end that made no difference. After Squall had gotten over the resulting daze of his kidnap, he had scoured the room as thoroughly as possible for any sort of exploitable opening and it wasn't until the sun was fading in the little window that he remembered his phone. He called his father first, but Laguna had never been very good about answering phone calls. Both of Rinoa's phones—home and cell—went directly to voice mail and Irvine's number apparently no longer existed. Neither Selphie nor Zell had a phone and Squall would be damned before he even considered contacting Seifer. Though with his apparent luck, it probably wouldn't do much good even if he did try.

And then he'd remembered that day that Bartz had left his number spelled out in napkin shreds on a table in the Cosmos Café. Squall had reopened his contacts and Bartz's name was first on the list…

"_Hey, what's up? …Uh-huh. …Yeah. …Hey, hold that thought, I'm not actually here right now, so leave a message and I'll get back to you A.S.A.P. so we can continue this _wonderful_ conversation! Thanks!"_ **Beep.**

After the tenth time calling, Squall was beginning to hate Bartz's automated voice message.

Now the window was blackening, signaling the end of Squall's second day in solitary confinement, and he was anything but thrilled about spending another sleepless night in a freezing basement with no outside contact. He hadn't even seen the face of his kidnapper since she'd appeared from thin air and took him from the front step of his house.

Squall paced the perimeter of the basement. It was rather small and cramped; there were no furnishings aside from an old space heater with no cord and a decaying wine rack filled with cobwebs. On the wall opposite the window, some few feet above his head, was the door that lead out of the basement and into whoever's house he was trapped in. The stairs to that door had been removed; the only evidence of their existence was the stubbed remains of a railing still hanging at the edges of the door.

The bored barista tucked his cell phone into his back pocket and shrugged his jacket closer around his shoulders. Squall's jacket, while lined with fur at the collar, wasn't quite enough to keep him warm in the frigid basement, if only that space heater worked…

Squall flexed his fingers around the front of his jacket, feeling the toughness of the leather, and glanced from the old heater to the door that hovered maybe a foot or so above his head. Why hadn't he thought of this sooner…?

* * *

The night had come and gone and the next day was ending when Jecht pulled into the wide drive in front of the country house. Moments later, Kain pulled up beside him in Kuja's car and just the sight of it reignited the fury that boiled under Jecht's skin. He threw his own car in park, tore away the still-bloody keys, and slammed the door behind him with extreme force. Tidus followed at a quieter, more cautious pace, clearly wary of further upsetting his father, but he deviated from Jecht's direct path to the front porch. Instead, he went to help Zidane out of the back of the SUV and stood with the smaller blond as Kain came round to the trunk and eased Bartz into his arms. Terra trotted at their heels as they proceeded to the door that Jecht had so kindly left swinging open on its hinges. Firion came soon after with Light once again cradled to his chest.

Inside, the new arrivals were swept into a flurry of action—a young, pink-haired woman with a slightly gruff demeanor directed Kain to a large, accommodating sofa while a busty brunette laid a gentle hand on Firion's shoulder and guided him to a spare bedroom down the hall. A broad man with tousled, chin-length silver hair stood in the wide frame that connected the living room to the kitchen, watching the action with calm dark eyes—he, in particular, caught Zidane's sweeping gaze and held it for a single second. Zidane frowned, chills raced down his spine, but he couldn't spare a moment to wonder any longer; he fell to his knees next to the sofa, next to Bartz's head, and tentatively swept the loose brown locks from his friend's forehead.

Tidus and Terra slumped into a set of armchairs, tired and shaking. After the trauma at the hospital and a long day of non-stop travelling, they were worn out and left weakened by the loss of adrenaline and hunger. Claire disappeared into the kitchen and emerged soon after with a box of crackers and a couple of ginger ales. She passed the cans to Tidus and Terra and left them to split the box.

Kain stepped away and approached the man in the frame; they made eye contact but didn't speak. They only watched as Zidane stroked Bartz's forehead, watched as Claire took the blanket from the back of the sofa and settled it over the brunet's inert form, watched Jecht as he fumed, dangerously quiet.

Tifa returned alone and looked to Kain expectantly, "What happened? Where's Kuja?"

There was a sudden crash and the light in the room dimmed drastically. All heads turned to Jecht, who stood seething over a smashed lamp. Jecht directed his glare from face to face and then, growling, stormed out of the room and through the front door.

Tifa's expression became one of sorrowed understanding. "Oh…" She looked to Zidane. "I'm so sorry."

Zidane pursed his lips and stared at the floor. After sitting in the back of his late brother's SUV for so long, he'd become numb. He'd been left alone with his thoughts, unwilling to take part in any of the tentative conversations that the others had attempted. Zidane had spent the grueling hours noticing the convenience of Kuja's chosen vehicle and remembering how he'd smirked at that police officer and how he'd been so perpetually exhausted. He could only come to the conclusion that Kuja was far more embedded in the situation than a "mere messenger," but he couldn't begin to imagine what that embedment could be.

"So, what do we do now?" asked Tifa, arms crossed but still notably concerned.

"We continue as planned," rumbled the silver-haired man. "We must gather the others as Klauser was asked. Tomorrow, you will go and fetch Cloud. I will call Laguna about locating Squall and if Kuja's suspicions are correct, then we will have to search all of the witch's hideouts as thoroughly as possible."

"Assuming she's an idiot," Kain interjected sourly and received a hard glare from the man. "She will not hide him somewhere _usual_, not unless she _wants_ us to have Leonhart back, which I am highly doubtful of."

The man scowled. "Then we will have to try a different approach."

"We still haven't heard anything from Luneth," added Tifa. "I thought he was safe, but…the Cloud of Darkness has vanished and now I'm not sure."

"We will find him," the man assured, solid as a rock and just as unwavering. Then he left the room, presumably to call Laguna on the whereabouts of his son.

Tifa sighed. "And in the meantime, we'll just keep Jecht from going on a rampage." She shook her head, eyes tracking Jecht's hulking form as he paced the porch, appearing and disappearing from view of the window. "I don't think I've ever seen him so worked up, I almost feel bad for whatever bastard got Kuja." She grimaced slightly. "I just hope he comes back soon."

The mention of his brother's name got Zidane's attention.

"'_Comes back soon_,'" he repeated dully, still focused on his best friend's somewhat bruised face. "He's dead. I watched him die." Zidane glanced at Tifa, at Kain, and then went back to Bartz. "How's he supposed to '_come back_' from that?"

Tifa came to kneel at Zidane's side, hands clasped gently in her lap and her expression one of soft understanding. "I know this is hard for you," she said, undeniably genuine, "I know you must be very confused and angry. Believe me, I understand."

"I just want to know what's going on," Zidane muttered.

"It's not so easy to explain," said Tifa. "I wish I could help more, but there isn't much I can do. Only Kuja can fully restore your memories—"

"That's not entirely true," Terra interrupted softly. "Zidane triggered my memories." At Tifa's astonished face, she amended, "Not fully…there are still some gaps and I don't have access to my magic, but…I'm remembering things, slowly."

"But…neither of you have a crystal," said Tifa. "Crystals appear when someone's memories are restored and help those with no villain to regain lost knowledge..." She reached up and pulled a thin gold chain from around her neck, revealing a small blue orb pendant that shone with a presence that filled the room. "You need a crystal to trigger memory."

"It was Light's," Zidane said quietly. "Terra was holding it and I hugged her. It burned hot and the chain started to melt and then…"

"And then what?" asked Tifa, eyes wide.

The blond genome swallowed hard past the lump in his throat. "And then Kuja took it."

Tifa's shoulder's slumped, her necklace dropped back down under the neck of her shirt and its presence receded. "Well, hopefully he'll have it when he comes back."

Zidane fisted his free hand—the hand not stroking Bartz's hair—in his lap, crushing the hem of his shirt between his fingers. "You keep saying that… '_When he comes back_.' How can he possibly come back after what happened to him?"

The brunette glanced at Kain beseechingly, but the dragoon shook his head helplessly. Tifa frowned at him and returned her attention to Zidane as she searched herself for an answer. "Well. You see, Zidane… Kuja won't truly die unless _you_ kill him. That's how it works here. Any warrior under Co—_Calais_ cannot die and stay dead unless their villain kills them. It's a bit of a mess really, seeing as it takes contact with your villain to jump-start your memories and powers. Goddess knows I wouldn't have made it past Sephiroth if Theodore hadn't been there." Zidane stared at her blankly. "Sorry. Anyway. The point is that Kuja isn't actually _dead_…he's just…not here right now. He'll come back, I don't know when or how or where, because this is the first time one of us has been killed…but he'll come back. I promise."

"What do you mean by 'their villain'? Kuja's been helping us…hasn't he?" asked Zidane; the encounter with the Emperor came to the forefront of his mind.

"Oh, _yes_," insisted Tifa. "Kuja's been on our side for a long time now. He's not a villain; I don't think he ever truly was. That's what makes your situation so unique. You _and_ Tidus, because neither of you have a villain."

"So…there's no chance of us dying and staying dead?" guessed Zidane, still trying to wrap his mind around the concept.

"Exactly, but it also means that you might have a little more trouble regaining your memories."

"Okay…but I still don't think I get it. Dying and staying dead? How can you die and _not_ stay dead?"

Tifa had to think for a moment. She wasn't entirely sure of that for herself; she hadn't thought to question the precise mechanics of this world and the goddess who watched over it. Of course, it was Cosmos who had repeatedly resurrected her warriors during the early stages of the war, back when the battles took place in the fragmented world called Dissidia. Tifa could only assume that despite being in hiding and despite the change in battleground, it was Cosmos who continued to keep them alive. However, she couldn't just tell Zidane that, he had no memory outside of this new world and he would only become more frustrated and confused. Tifa sighed and simply said, "I'm sorry, I don't really know."

Zidane held her apologetic gaze for a mere fraction of a second and then turned his attention to Bartz. He didn't want to deal with any of this right now. He wanted to rewind time and go back to when he and Bartz didn't have a single care in the world, back to when their greatest adventure was taking Bartz's bike into town and looking for ways to fill the lazy hours of summer. He wanted _Bartz_ back. And his brother. And even Squall, despite not really knowing the barista very well. He wanted things to be normal again.

"What about Bartz?" he asked.

"I can heal him," said Tifa. "I'm not a healer like Terra or as strong with magic like Kuja, but I can heal him."

"Okay," said Zidane.

The blond genome shifted to lean against the foot of the sofa as Tifa rose fluidly and disappeared down the hall. He politely refused Terra's offer of crackers and Tidus's held out can of ginger ale, despite the hunger gnawing at his stomach. When his silence persisted, Tidus and Terra picked themselves up and, with Kain's guidance, retreated down the hall for much-deserved rest.

A few minutes later, Cecil slipped in through the kitchen, fidgeting slightly with the hem of his shirt. "What's happening?" he asked softly.

Claire scoffed. "If you weren't so dead set on avoiding Kain, you would know."

Cecil's cheeks turned pink and he said shamefully, "I don't know what to say to him."

"Does it really matter?" said Claire, a bit snappish; this was a conversation she'd had with Cecil one too many times. "He just wants to talk to you, to make sure you're all right. Stop being so childish, Cecil. All you're doing is proving to me that you don't deserve him."

"That's hardly fair, Lightning," said Cecil bitterly. "I can't adjust in the blink of an eye like you can, I haven't gone through _training_ like you have. Until a few days ago, I was just a fencing instructor, not a hard-shelled federal agent."

Claire scowled at him, but a polite cough interrupted whatever retort she was building up in her throat. She and Cecil turned to see Kain and Tifa standing at the mouth of the hallway; Cecil made a small noise of surprise and fled back into the kitchen. Claire glared after him. Kain sighed and went to sit heavily in one of the recently vacated armchairs.

Tifa returned to her kneeling position next to Bartz and held up a glowing green orb. With a few gentle whispers, the orb began to emit a creeping light much like when Kuja healed Bartz's lung. The light glided over Bartz's entire body, seeping beneath the neck brace and the bandages and fading as it sunk through the cotton hospital-issue clothing and into his skin. When the light vanished entirely, Tifa removed the neck brace and then everything was still for one breathless moment. Then Bartz's entire body arched upward as he gave a heaving gasp. He struggled briefly, Zidane and Tifa both stood and reached out to grab his arms to prevent any injury, and then he jolted into a sitting position.

Kain leaned forward in his chair and Claire watched with raised eyebrows as Bartz surveyed his surroundings. Tifa eased back, giving him space, but Zidane stayed close, still gripping Bartz's wrist.

The brunet's bleary eyes glazed over Tifa's face, searching, before finding Zidane and flickering with muted recognition. "Zidane…?"

"Yeah?" The blond tightening his fingers around Bartz's wrist, eyes wide; hope trickled through him.

Bartz nodded faintly and then slid back down into the couch cushions, fast asleep. Zidane fought back a surge of panic, hands fluttering uselessly before settling in his lap; he looked to Tifa for an explanation.

"He'll need to rest," she said. "Cured or not, he still spent a day in the back of a car in serious condition. Here, I'll carry him to one of the rooms." Tifa scooped Bartz into her arms, shrugging gently to so that his head lolled securely onto her shoulder; she made the action seem effortless. She grinned. "I have two young kids that I take care of back home, I've done this too many times to count."

Zidane followed mutely at her heels as she strode steadily down the hall, leading him past several closed doors. As they walked, she explained that this house had been designed to hold many inhabitants and aside from the living room and the kitchen, every other room was a bedroom. The house was big enough for each room to sustain a single occupant and Theodore—the man with the silver-hair—had spared no expense in purchasing as many double sized beds as necessary. Zidane wondered why this Theodore was so apparently concerned with their comfort, but he couldn't focus enough to ask about it. All he could think about was Bartz. Bartz had woken up! Bartz had said his name! Bartz was _back_!

After all that had happened at the hospital and then stewing in his misery for nearly forty-eight hours, Zidane felt lighter than air at this wonderful turn of events.

Tifa asked him to open the door for her when they reached the nearest empty room; Firion was next door, still refusing to let Light out of his sight, and all the other rooms before theirs had already been claimed. Directly across the hall was Tidus and next to him was Terra. Zidane was comforted to know that the people he knew best were closest.

"Feel free to take the next room over if you like," said Tifa, more out of courtesy than anything else. She knew as well as Zidane that the blond wasn't leaving Bartz, especially not now.

With the brunet settled on the bed and tucked under the sheets, Tifa left and closed the door politely behind her. Zidane stood for a moment, staring at his sleeping friend, and allowed himself a big, cleansing sigh.

He was exhausted. Completely and utterly _exhausted._ He cast about, lids suddenly heavy, in search of something more comfortable to wear instead of his rumpled shirt and stiff jeans. A peek into the room's lone wardrobe revealed several plain cotton t-shirts and flannel pants—once again, Zidane wondered about Theodore's concern over their comfort, but was too grateful for the change of clothing to care. Then he staggered back to the bed and didn't think twice before rolling under the covers alongside Bartz.

He fell asleep instantly.

* * *

Squall lay flat on his back staring up at the ceiling. His jacket was hooked over the doorknob about a foot above his standing height and the old space heater had a distinct dent in the middle. His back ached dully and there was a steady throb building at the base of his skull. He'd been in the basement for three days now and, damn it, he was _hungry_! The constant growling and gnawing in his stomach had only hindered his efforts, making his limbs shake and his vision double.

But Squall prided himself in being stubborn, in being driven and determined. He had set his sights on a goal and he wasn't going to quit until he reached it. So he heaved himself up off the ground, pausing to let the dizziness fade, and then stepped up on the space heater once more. He grasped the twined sleeves of his jacket and, with biceps screaming their discomfort, pulled himself up. He planted one foot against the rough cement wall and then the other, and then he slid one hand up the jackets sleeves and then the other. Squall clenched his jaw, dragging slow deep breaths between his teeth, and forced himself to take another step, planting one foot and then the other. It wasn't a far climb, but with his makeshift equipment combined with his exhaustion and hunger, it felt like a hundred foot cliff face.

Squall slid one hand up…and then the other…planted one foot…and then the other… He reached the wadded body of his jacket; this was where he'd failed time after time, because here he had to release his hold, he couldn't slide his hands any further. Arms shaking and back aching, Squall dragged another deep breath through his lungs and let go with his right hand. He felt himself sliding back down the wall as he reached up to grab the thicker part of his jacket, but he did not allow himself to be distracted. His fingers locked around the tough leather and held fast. Encouraged, Squall released his left hand and brought it up to join the other, and then he brought one foot up…and found purchase on the lip at the base of the doorframe. He hauled himself upward, now standing level with the door as he would if he was on solid ground, and he only had to shift one hand to grasp the doorknob. _He had it_! He'd done it!

His palm found the cool metal and his fingers latched around it, worming under the jacket for a better hold. He allowed himself a sigh of relief. He twisted the knob—

The door was locked.

Squall blinked at it, uncomprehending, and tried again. Still locked. He raised an eyebrow. Of course it was locked. He was a prisoner and, naturally, he would be kept in a small, dark, _locked_ room. It made sense, really. _Of course_ the door would be locked after he'd spent two straight days, starving but determined, trying to scale a wall with nothing but a leather jacket and an old space heater. It would be too easy if the door _wasn't_ locked. _So of course the door was locked_!

Very calmly, Squall took his feet off the lip of the frame and loosened his hands just a little bit from around the jacket. Slowly and carefully, he let himself slide back down the wall, only letting go when his feet could reach the space heater. He flicked his jacket free of the knob and stepped down onto the basement floor.

Squall Leonhart was a quiet young man, he was taciturn and intelligent and rather snarky. Squall Leonhart felt that words didn't need to be used frivolously; he used them to make a point when necessary, but otherwise felt no need to chatter away inconsequentially. Squall Leonhart never raised his voice nor did he ever use excessive profanity. _However_, Squall Leonhart also believed in the occasional exception.

Right now, Squall felt something bubbling up in his throat, something vile and furious and unstoppable. And so Squall Leonhart, the bored barista, the taciturn youth, threw back his head and screamed.

"_FUUUUCK_!"


	12. Chapter 11 :: Recovery

**Disclamation! **Dissidia: Final Fantasy © Square Enix.

**A/N:** Do you know how _EXTREMELY DIFFICULT_ it is to make eight student films, one being yours and thus obviously a top priority, in a condensed amount of time _and_ work overtime for the opening night (and following shows) of _Much Ado About Nothing_, which, by the way, you are starring as Beatrice in? I do. :| I can't even complain about it because I love this kind of shit.

_THE MESSENGER (featuring Your Favorite Enemies) – Takeharu Ishimoto_

* * *

**The Messenger**

Chapter Eleven :: Recovery

Zidane yawned and stretched, eyes blinking open in the crisp sunlight that leaked in through the thin white curtains that were pulled neatly over the window. He squinted, still adjusting to the light, and threw a hand out to search the bedside table for his cell phone. When he didn't find it, he rolled over to peer confusedly at the little table; it was empty save for a small reading lamp. Zidane sat up on his elbows and pushed loose hair from his face, blearily trying to remember why he wasn't in his own bedroom at his and Kuja's apartment. When it hit him, Zidane dropped his face into his pillow and groaned loudly. When it _fully_ hit him, Zidane pushed himself back up and flailed a bit as he rushed to sit up and turned to stare the other side of the bed.

Empty.

Zidane scrabbled out of the tangle of covers he'd been cocooned in and padded to the door, slipping out and down the hall to where he remembered the kitchen to be. The room was bright and cheerful, the walls painted a pleasant, pale yellow and complimented by the clean white cupboards and matching refrigerator. A row of open windows offered a wide view of the sprawling countryside and the tiny huddled shapes of a distant herd of cattle. More immediately, however, was the long wooden table set with three spaces, cluttered with boxes of cereal, a jug of milk, and various platters of bacon and hash browns and, Zidane's mouth watered, _pancakes._ Even now, Tifa was at the stovetop pouring out more batter; she looked up at Zidane's approach and bid him to take a seat. Zidane didn't sit right away; he was staring at the room's occupants.

Terra smiled and murmured a soft good morning; Tidus nodded his greeting, mouth full and chin dribbled with syrup. The fridge closed with a muffled clatter of jarred contents and Bartz turned around with a carton of orange juice clutched in his hands. Bartz looked ruffled, wearing flannels and a cotton v-neck similar to the ones Zidane had on, there were faint circles under his eyes and he was too thin, but all the bandaging was gone. All that remained of the accident was a faint pink scar just under the hairline over his right eye. The sight of him froze Zidane; he was too relieved and too _happy_ that Bartz was finally all right to move his feet from where they were rooted to the floor.

Bartz made the first move. He broke out in a blinding smile, shoved the carton of orange juice onto the counter, and ran forward to snatch the smaller blond up into a tight hug. Zidane stumbled, but quickly regained his balance and brought his arms up to lock around Bartz's midsection; he dropped his face into the junction between the brunet's neck and shoulder and slumped into the embrace. Zidane wasn't even aware that he'd begun to cry until Bartz threaded a soothing hand through his hair and started to rock him back and forth.

"It's all right," Bartz murmured. "I got you, it's all right."

Zidane tightened his grip around the back of Bartz's shirt and pressed his face to Bartz's collarbone. "I thought you were going to die," he whispered between hiccups.

Bartz chuckled, a throaty sound that reverberated in his chest, and rested his cheek on the top of Zidane's head. "I'm okay, Zid. I'm still here and I'm not going anywhere."

"You'd better not," the blond mumbled, drawing out of the embrace and hastily rubbing the moisture from his face. Bartz's hands lingered at his shoulders for a moment, gripping tightly before sliding away; Bartz smiled brightly once again and then grabbed Zidane's wrist and pushed him into a chair at the table. The brunet plunked down in the seat next to him and promptly grabbed the underside of the chair and dragged the blond just a little bit closer. Zidane blinked at the closeness, but in all honesty he didn't mind; he welcomed it, really.

"Eat up, you two." Tifa bustled over and set a plate piled with fresh, steaming pancakes in front of the blond and the forgotten carton of OJ was placed in front of Bartz. The brunette woman smiled kindly at them. "Especially you, Zidane. Bartz here has already eaten all the English muffins. And even though I'm not done feeding him, you haven't eaten properly in a while either."

Zidane didn't need to be told twice, the smell of the pancakes alone was enough to remind him of his ravenous hunger. For a while, all he could focus on was the food piled on his plate and the occasional brush of Bartz's hand over his as the brunet reached for the syrup or the juice or the cereal. When Zidane felt like he might burst if he ate anymore, he leaned back in his chair and simply reveled in the feeling of being full and in good company. It was a feeling he didn't often have the chance to enjoy.

"So," said Zidane, looking around the kitchen and twisting in his chair to sweep his gaze over the living room. "Where is everyone?"

Tifa, who had taken a seat at the head of the table, wiped her mouth daintily and replied, "Theodore's in his office working as usual. Claire and Kain went into town, it's about an hour or so away, for groceries and to pick up some fresh clothes for you lot. And Cecil is outside with Jecht, trying to help him vent without breaking more of Theodore's décor."

Tidus snorted. "Bet that's interesting. Cecil didn't see how my old man _destroyed_ the Emperor after what happened. He's beyond pissed off."

"Who exactly is Theodore?" asked Zidane suddenly. Judging by the way Terra and Tidus perked up at his question, it was clear that they did not know either.

Tifa leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on the face of the table and her chin on one palm. The other hand crossed parallel to the edge of the table, gently nudging away her polished off plate, and her fingertips drummed a faint pattern on the wood.

"Theodore," she said at length, "is Cecil's older brother."

When no one found this surprising—save Bartz who had never actually _seen_ the man—Tifa chuckled a little.

"It's not really up to me to tell you anything more about him," she admitted. "A lot of what's going on is kept pretty hush-hush and it's difficult to explain or understand if you haven't gained all of your memories…" She trailed off and looked to Bartz and Bartz blinked back at her. Then Tifa said plainly, "You've come into contact with your villain. As well as Luneth's and mine and Cloud's and on top of that, you've spoken to Calais. Not many of us have, just you, Firion, Light, Theodore, and Kuja."

"So what are you saying?" Bartz asked, a little stiffly as though he was perfectly aware of what Tifa was implying.

Tifa smiled patiently. "I'm saying that Theodore will want to speak to you very soon."

"Hold on here," said Zidane, glancing between Tifa and Bartz with a frustrated crease in his brow. "What's going on exactly? When did Bartz meet any villains? And you still haven't actually told us to Theodore is."

Ever patient, Tifa raised her chin from her palm and calmly folded her arms on the tabletop; her gentle smile persisted. "As I said, it's difficult to explain what is happening if you don't have the right memories, but don't worry, Zidane. Once Kuja returns, I'm sure he'll help you recover what you've lost. Bartz encountered his villain some time ago and did not realize who it was at the time. And, actually, you've met some villains, too, Zidane. You met mine and Cloud's and you've met Squall's and, of course, you've encountered the Emperor."

Zidane ground his teeth at the mention of the Trap Master. "Whose villain is he?"

"Firion's. Though it seems Firion will have some competition over who gets to kill him first." Tifa chuckled dryly. "And as for Theodore. Well, to put it simply, he's the boss. He's been organizing the recovery of Calais's warriors for some time now. About a year, I think."

"That long?" asked Terra, surprised. "How come we've only just heard of him, then?"

Tifa's smile turned sad. "He wasn't very successful in the early days. Two of our warriors were lost, but he still hasn't given up searching for them."

Terra looked down into her lap for a moment, eyebrows furrowed in thought. "I think I remember them… I mean, I'm pretty sure I know who you're talking about. Vaan, right? And…" Terra cut herself off, glancing sharply at Tidus and pressing her lips together.

Tifa nodded.

"I'm not completely out of the loop," grumbled Tidus with no real agitation. "Jecht explained things to me a couple days ago. Not in detail, we were in kind of a hurry, but the holes are filling themselves in." Tidus held up his hands wonderingly. "If I focus hard enough…I can almost…" A glimmer of light bubbled up from the boy's palms, lingered for a moment, and then faded away.

"That's good," said Tifa encouragingly. "I didn't know Jecht had fully recovered his memories and powers, this is great!"

Tidus shook his head. "The old man doesn't remember _everything_, just bits and pieces. He told me he remembers most of Dissidia, but nothing about our home world and I don't think he has powers either. He used a knife from Bartz's kitchen to kill that fake officer, Ultimecia. He just told me what he knows and, I dunno, it all made sense to me."

"I guess that's all it takes to start getting your powers back," said Bartz, thinking out loud. "It makes sense, too. Just knowing what's going on here and now and how to fight back being what you need to get powered up." Then he blinked, as if just realizing something. "Did you say Jecht _killed_ someone? In my _house_?"

"Yeah," Tidus said grimly. "It was bloody. There's a knife sticking out of the wall and purple arrows _everywhere_."

Zidane tacked on, slightly embarrassed, "I also sort of threw up on your rug."

"Wonderful," Bartz deadpanned, but then he smiled and patted Zidane's shoulder fondly. All was forgiven. No harm done.

"Well," said Tifa, standing and collecting the empty plates; Terra stood as well to help. "Today will be busy, I think. People coming and going. I'm expected to pick up Cloud around noon and we haven't heard anything from Laguna yet. So make yourselves comfortable, everything in this house is available to you."

Bartz stood fluidly and grasped Zidane's upper arm as he went; he beamed at the young blond. "Come on," he said, "I wanna show you something."

"Okay," said Zidane and he allowed his friend to lead him out the back door and into a wide, dusty countryside yard. Some ways away, Cecil observed as Jecht practiced a series of lethal-looking punches and kicks on a padded dummy, but Bartz lead him in the opposite direction, grip sliding down to his hand. Zidane glanced curiously down at their linked hands and wondered if he could get away with intertwining their fingers or if that would be too much. He didn't dwell on that for much longer, because all too soon Bartz came to halt and quietly told Zidane to look around. He did not, however, release the blond's hand.

Zidane dutifully obeyed and raised his eyes to survey the area Bartz had led him to. It was a garden, located round the side of the house and short distance from the windows of the final bedrooms. It was beautiful: a comfortable circle of cobblestone ringed with low, red-flowered bushes and centered with a simple wooden bench. A few graceful trees offered shaded patches and dappled the ground; each was footed with an array of small, colorful blossoms and interspersed with unobtrusive sprinkler heads.

"Wow…" breathed Zidane, taking a few slow steps deeper into the garden. He pivoted, circling so that he could take in every angle and Bartz moved with him, still joined at the hands, smiling gently at his young friend.

Nestled between a pair of trees was a cozy rabbit hutch and beyond the mesh door Zidane could see two furry shapes. Zidane grinned. "Are those…?"

"Cecil's bunnies?" finished Bartz. "Yup. Cecil was on lock-down when he first arrived, so apparently he made Theodore go to his house and pick them up. He didn't want them to starve."

Zidane was about to comment on how adorable it was that Cecil could boss around his terrifying older brother, when Bartz's words—specifically, his familiarity when speaking the name of Theodore—caught his attention. "Do have your memories?"

"Yup," said Bartz. With a gentle tug, he brought Zidane to sit on the bench, facing away from the country house and with Cecil's rabbits to their right. "Technically, I survived an encounter with my villain and that alone merits a mental zap. But, see, I didn't _know_ it was him and he wasn't in his true form, so nothing happened." Bartz smirked and threw a wan smile at Zidane. "Apparently, all I needed was a good smack to the head."

"That's not funny," said Zidane severely, meeting and locking eyes with Bartz. The brunet held his stare for one long moment, searching the blond's expression for…_something_, but whether or not he found it was a mystery. Bartz looked away.

"No," he said, mollifying, "I suppose not."

There was a ringing silence during which a breeze fluttered through the trees and ruffled the fur on the huddled rabbits. It trickled through the boys' hair and clothing and swept across Zidane's skin with chilled fingers; Bartz let his eyes slide shut and sighed. He'd forgotten how much he loved the wind, loved the feel of it on his face, and the fleeting sense of freedom it sparked in his heart. It had been too long since Bartz had been able to enjoy the simple pleasure of the earth's breath.

Bartz glanced down at Zidane; the blond had his head ducked and his free hand curled around his midsection. He seemed lost.

"Hey," Bartz said softly, nudging his shoulder to Zidane's. "Are you okay?"

The young genome shrugged and surveyed the garden without really seeing it; he was trying to distract himself from the feel of Bartz's eyes boring into him.

"I will be," he replied, just as soft. "I mean…in the last few days I've been chased down by evil strangers, lost contact with Squall, had my best friend hospitalized and declared unlikely to live, had you almost _die_ in my arms, watched my brother literally go up in flames and turn to ash, and sat in the back of a car for a nearly two days with you bleeding and struggling to breathe and not being able to _do_ anything about it…!" Zidane was rambling, bordering on hysteria. "I mean it's not like I've endured severe emotional trauma or anything. No, I'm perfectly fine, really, I just—"

Bartz pulled Zidane to his chest, effectively silencing him, and wrapped an arm around his waist. The other hand rose to thread through Zidane's hair, cradling the base of his skull and thumbing a slow, soothing circle in the hollow behind his ear. Bartz had nothing to say; all he could think of were the same words he'd spoken earlier in the kitchen, but it felt useless to repeat them. So Bartz said nothing, he simply rested his cheek atop Zidane's head and pulled the blond to lean fully against him.

And the wind fluttered over their joined forms and tousled their hair together and swept away the tension that gripped them both. Presently, Zidane's breathing slowed and deepened and he slumped further into Bartz's arms as much-needed sleep overcame him.

* * *

Laguna parked in front of an old, abandoned house and sat for moment, staring the miserable building and wondering if this was really the place. When Theodore had called and explained the situation, Laguna had been skeptical—sure, it'd been a while since he'd heard from his son, but that was nothing unusual. Squall liked his privacy, probably more than boys his age really should, but Laguna respected that nonetheless. However, when Squallo failed to answer his phone for the umpteenth time, Laguna had begun to worry and thought that maybe, perhaps, Theodore had been onto something.

And if _Kuja_ had been taken out…well, that wasn't good at all.

So Laguna had pulled out his secret weapon—one he had sworn he would never use unless majorly, crucially, vitally, lives-are-at-stake-depending-on-_you_-yes-_you_-Laguna necessary—and called the cell phone company. The nice lady on the other end of line had sympathetically listened to Laguna's heartstring-pulling tale of his rebellious son who had gone to a late night concert and had yet to return home and oh how _worried_ he was, because poor little Stormy (a spur of the moment codename, because there was no telling who could be listening in) had health problems and needed to take his medicine or else suffer the extreme symptoms of his incurable…um, _ADHD._

Laguna was well aware of how ridiculous his story was, but once he'd started talking there was no stopping and his genuine worry had not helped the issue. Still, the nice lady had immediately turned on the GPS in Squall's phone and told Laguna the location with the inspired tones of a soap opera addict.

The house Laguna ended up at was a complete dump and he couldn't fathom any reason Squall would want to be here. Theodore was probably right in suspecting that Squall had been kidnapped.

Laguna stepped out of his car and wandered to the front step, briefly wondering whether or not he should knock. No one seemed to be home, the windows were curtained and dark and the lawn had obviously seen better days. Laguna opted for trying the door and then, when it didn't budge, he took a step back and kicked it in. As he entered the premises with slow, silent steps, he slipped out the handgun tucked into the back of his belt and brought it around front, holding it steady and downward. Inside the house was dark and gloomy and Laguna was wary of turning on any lights—though, logically, kicking the front door off its hinges probably would have alerted any occupants to his presence.

Laguna tread down the hall with measured steps, checking any open doorway he came upon and taking the corners slowly. He didn't dare lower his guard; Squall was in here somewhere in questionable condition and Laguna couldn't take any chances.

A muffled _thump_ suddenly caught his attention and Laguna brought his gun up automatically in defense. He froze, controlling and quieting his breathing as he listened; one instance wasn't enough to pinpoint the source of the noise, he needed to hear it again.

_Thump_.

Laguna turned sharply. A board creaked under his foot and he cringed. He entered a barren sitting room; the walls bore only cobwebs and the furniture was covered in tarps. The house was a dummy, a prop to help create an illusion; whoever owned this house didn't actually live here but instead used it to throw people off…_her_ trail. _Her_. Because, really, who else could it be?

_Crack_!

There!

Laguna raced forward, coming to an abrupt halt at the door at the end of the room. It was tucked in a corner, almost hidden in the shadow of a dusty, book-less shelf. Laguna tried the knob; it rattled uselessly and remained unmoving.

Laguna tapped the door softly and, after doing a swift survey of the room, called out, "Squall? Step back, I'm going to shoot the lock."

He heard a few muffled obscenities and gave his son another moment before backing up and taking aim. His brow furrowed, he perfected his stance, and then squeezed the trigger.

There was a loud _clang_ and the knob shot inward, blown completely out of the wood. Laguna grinned at his handiwork and then rushed forward and shoved the door open. He looked down into the cellar and waved happily at his son.

Squall glared up at him, standing amidst a ruined wine rack and severely dented space heater. He shrugged on his jacket and approached the doorway.

"Took you long enough," he growled out. "I've been in here for _days_."

"Sorry, kiddo," said Laguna, tucking his gun into his belt and crouching down. "A lot has been going on."

He braced on hand on the frame and reached out with the other. Squall grasped Laguna's wrist and vice versa and allowed himself to be hauled out of the cellar. Once on the same floor as his father, Squall braced for the coming hug and stoically endured its duration. Laguna stepped back from the embrace, but still held Squall at arm's length, taking in his son's pale, tired appearance. Laguna had moisture sparkling in the corners of his eyes and he had to take several deep breaths to keep himself in check. Then, with a final squeeze, he said, "Don't worry, Squallo, you're okay now. You're safe."

Squall raised an eyebrow.

"Can we go to In-and-Out? I'm starving."

The bluntness of the statement seemed to startle Laguna, but he recovered marvelously and beamed proudly. "Of course we can! Let's get outta here."

"Finally," grumbled Squall, following his father out of the building and sliding gratefully into the worn leather seats of Laguna's car.

They drove in silence for a few fleeting moments while Laguna concentrated on figuring out where the nearest fast food establishment was located and Squall focused on fighting off the blackness wavering in the corners of his vision. He was hungry and he felt embarrassingly weak, but something told him that it would be a bad idea to sleep now. It was a godsend when Laguna finally located a burger joint and swung through the drive-thru, ordering several generously sized cheeseburgers and a large fry and soda combo. Squall consumed it all with shivers of relief and sagged into the seat, too satisfied to fully pay attention to the resulting stomachache.

Once they hit the open road, Laguna broke the quiet spell—something Squall had been expecting much sooner and was impressed that Laguna had held out for so long.

"There's been a lot going on," Laguna said frankly. "I haven't been to the country house in a while, so I don't know the full story, but it doesn't sound good."

Squall rolled his eyes. "In a language I understand, please?"

"Oh. Right. You're not up to date, are you?"

"No."

"Right." Laguna thought for a moment. "You've been gone for nearly three days now."

"Yup."

"Well. Those have been some _busy_ three days, Squallo, we have a _lot_ to talk about. This is great, it'll be like father-son _bonding_."

Laguna beamed a mega-watt smile at his son, to which Squall groaned and slouched in his seat. He almost felt like he was back in that basement with no hope of escape, but at least being trapped with his father meant getting food and seeing Zidane and Bartz again. There was something familiar and comforting about those two goof balls and Squall had missed them during his time in captivity.

And there was a sinking feeling the pit of his stomach and Squall was suddenly anxious to be reunited with his friends.

* * *

**A/N: **I would like to sincerely apologize for the lateness of this chapter; seriously, this took months more than it should have. Thankfully, all of my humongous time-consuming projects have been completed and I'm hoping to pick up the pace on this story. I am _so glad_ that I wrote down notes on everything I plan for this story, because at this point I don't remember a lot.

Even though it's a bit late for this, I hope you had a wonderful holiday season and have a happy new year! And I hope my lateness and inconsistency in updating hasn't chased off any reviewers, you guys are the best and I cannot properly explain how sorry I am for being so, well, horribly inconsistent.


	13. Chapter 12 :: The Lion Returns

**Disclamation! **Dissidia: Final Fantasy © Square Enix.

**A/N:** This is what I originally wrote in the A/N when I first started this chapter so long ago, I decided to keep it in case the person it refers to hasn't given up all hope on this story: "To the anonymous reviewer called inkie, can I just say: oh god, when I read your review…you had me grinning so hard my face hurt and then laughing so hard I disturbed _my_ roommate! _THANK YOU _(from me, not my roommate, she was a little weirded out). And don't worry; the whole thing about the house being too easy to break into will be addressed."

Okay. So I totally don't blame anyone for giving up on this story. Because I'm the worst person in the world ever. I have this horrible tendency to think I have all the time in the world and all this awesome free time and then Life walks up and bitch-slaps me right in the face. And then I fall apart completely. This is a treacherous pattern that I am extremely vulnerable to. However. I'm on summer time now, so I have plenty of time to re-play Dissidia and re-gather my muses and pick up this story and hopefully finally—_finally_—make some progress like I've promised to do so many times before. I sincerely hope that my less-than-stunning behavior hasn't chased away all my readers and I can't apologize enough to you guys all the inconsistencies.

_THE MESSENGER (featuring Your Favorite Enemies) – Takeharu Ishimoto_

* * *

**The Messenger**

Chapter Twelve :: The Lion Returns

Unsurprisingly, Laguna had gotten hopelessly lost.

Surprisingly, Laguna _did_ manage to find a place to stay the night.

It was a crappy motel on the outskirts of nowhere, but it was cheap and it offered a free breakfast service and the beds weren't completely horrible. Squall sunk onto one of the twin mattresses with a grateful sigh and flopped onto his back, throwing an arm over his face to block out the yellowy light. Laguna perched on his own bed and toyed with the television remote, but he didn't turn it on. He was waiting for Squall to speak, as he was certain that his son would have questions.

"So," said Squall at last, voice muffled beneath his arm. "How'd you know where to find me?"

"Hm? Oh." Laguna beamed proudly. "I had the GPS on your phone turned on!"

Squall removed his arm from his face and sat up, looking mildly impressed. "Nice." He turned to face his father completely and Laguna tossed aside the remote, intent on the impending bonding-session. "So," Squall continued. "You said that we have a lot to talk about?"

"Yes!" crowed Laguna, positively bursting with eagerness to tell his tale and bring Squall up to date on current events. He needed no permission or further prompting from his son and launched into his story with gusto. "See, I've been in touch with Kuja and Jecht all this time and we've been keeping an eye on you kids. You, Bartz, and Zidane, I mean. And when you went missing, I thought it was because you were getting work done with your friends like is meant to be. I didn't think anything bad could've happened until Theodore called me up and said he's got Bartz and Zidane, but not you. Calais set things in motion in a big way with Bartz and we are needed pronto, my boy!"

Squall blinked slowly. "What?"

"Oopsies, I should explain better, huh? Well. Calais has been around for a long, long time now and she and this man, Theodore, have been working towards attaining Harmony for just as long. Progress was slow and she lost some good warriors and others rejected her pleas because the stigma of Chaos was too strong. But when she got through to _Bartz_, that's when everything started picking up speed. I don't think the agents of Chaos ever expected Calais to have such a radical breakthrough and now they're scrambling to stop her all over again."

"All…over again…?" Squall dragged a hand over his face. "Laguna… Just…start from the beginning and tell me what's going on. You're not making much sense."

Laguna chuckled and grinned apologetically. "Sorry. Sorry. I got carried away, I guess. See, there's a war going on and it's been going on for a _really_ long time. It started in this…world made of up bits and pieces of other worlds. We called it Dissidia. At the start of this war, the Goddess Cosmos selected an army of handpicked warriors from these other worlds and placed them in Dissidia to combat the forces of her nemesis, the God Chaos. Follow?"

Squall nodded curtly. "Who's on our side?"

"Well, you've seen Bartz's list right?" Squall nodded. "Right, so those are most of Calais's warriors. And then there's also me, some fine ladies called Tifa, Yuna, and Lightning, a young fellow called Vaan, and Cecil's boyfriend, Kain. We're the good guys."

"What about Kuja? And that Theodore guy you mentioned?" asked Squall.

"I'll get to that," said Laguna. "Anyway. The war in Dissidia was going nowhere. It was this endless cycle of dying and coming back to life. The sides were evenly matched and on every occasion of a warrior besting another, the fallen would be revived by his Goddess or God to continue the fight. As the cycles went on and on and _on_, Dissidia began to…decay. It couldn't sustain the constant battle, the constant shifting of power, and all the fruitless efforts to change the tides of the war. It was falling apart around us and not even the gods could fix it.

"When Chaos realized this, he and his warriors—strong mages, most of them—pulled together one last-ditch effort to change the tides. Chaos and his side took salvaged pieces of technology from Cloud and Tifa's world, I think, and threw in some landscaping from anywhere else and mashed it together to create everything you see now. What Chaos _didn't _tell his warriors was that he also changed the rules and I suspect that Cosmos may have had her hand in this, too. Sneakily, of course. But the battle no longer works in cycles.

"See, we each have a villain that hails from our home-world. For us it's that sorceress who kidnapped you." Laguna frowned for a moment. "You wouldn't happen to know what happened to her? I expected her to be waiting for me when I came to rescue you, but the place was weirdly empty."

"Sorry, I don't know. I was a bit distracted," said Squall, deadpan.

"Ah, well," said Laguna. "No matter. We'll find out sooner or later. As I was saying. We each have a corresponding villain and this corresponding villain is the only one who can truly kill us. Meaning that if Ultimecia, the sorceress, had killed you, then you would've been dead."

Squall let out a long-suffering sigh. "No shit, Laguna. That's what happened when someone _kills_ you."

"No, no, no," Laguna hastily corrected himself, not even fazed by his son's attitude. "What I mean is that if anyone else's villain was to kill you, say Sephiroth, for example, Tifa's villain, than you would only be _temporarily_ dead. You would come back soon enough and continued fighting."

"That's bulls—" Squall cut himself off, because he realized that what his father was saying didn't _really_ sound like utter bullshit. It…made sense… There was a ring of bizarre familiarity to everything Laguna was saying. Perhaps it was because Squall had, however briefly, seen Ultimecia for himself, he had come into direct contact with her, and he had had this…_feeling_ that he had encountered her before. This feeling that whispered fairytales of long-passed fights in decaying battlegrounds and sounded phantom clashes of steel on rock and blazes of white hot fire sizzling through his mind.

Laguna grinned knowingly and continued his telling, "Once the warriors of both sides realized that they wouldn't always be revived, the fighting turned dirty. Chaos has this one guy who is particularly nasty, calls himself the _Emperor_, and the Emperor is a good salesman. He sweet-talked several of his fellows into following him exclusively. Of course, they're all working towards Chaos's ultimate goal for global destruction and terrorism, but they banded together to make it happen in such a way to give them the most…pleasure." Here Laguna grimaced as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. "And they worked their combined magic and wiped the memories of all of Cosmos's warriors. They made us forget everything we once knew: we forgot our pasts, how to summon our weapons, and how to tap into our strength. And they replaced everything with fake memories that matched up with this current world. They intended to make us sitting ducks, prime for the killing. What they _didn't_ expect was to find that some of their numbers had turned coat."

Squall quirked an eyebrow. "They were betrayed. By who?"

"Who do you think?"

Squall thought for a moment, but it didn't take long for realization to dawn. "Kuja."

"Right-o," sang Laguna, beaming. "Kuja is a narcissist and he's had nasty dealings in the past. He's been constantly dealt crappy cards and thrown into crappier situations, so it's no wonder he had a psychotic break and burned down a planet in his home-world. But it was that same narcissism that caused him to defect. He doesn't want to die. He was brought back to life to fight in this war. More importantly, he was brought back clear of past illness and mania and when you've been given a new slate free of old charges, it's not something you take lightly. So he snuck away and went to Cosmos." Laguna shook his head. "I don't know how that particular encounter went. You'll have to ask Kuja if you really want to know, but I do know that it wasn't very pretty at first. That kid dragged himself through proverbial Hell and back to prove himself to her.

"When Kuja defected, he brought Jecht with him. Jecht is Tidus's father and from what I've seen he's really not such a bad guy deep down. He's like Kuja in that he suffered from terrible circumstances, got thrown around in bad situations, and got sucked into this downward spiral. I think, above all else, Jecht is a dad who just wants to have his son back.

"And then you've got Theodore. We used to know him as Golbez, but that's his villain alias. He's pretty much been in cahoots with Cosmos from the very start. His younger brother is Cecil and he puts Cecil before all else. As a person, he's all right, but he's one hell of a devoted brother. When the field and the rules changed, he set up a secret hideout way out in the country, far from any of the villains' hiding places. The country house was always meant to be a backup plan. Somewhere we could take someone in dire need of healing and be able to properly protect them while they recovered."

"What was the original plan?"

"To have the Warrior of Light recovered, as he's been our natural leader since day one, and then have him collect our comrades… I don't know much else about it. I wasn't in the loop then. I was still an amnesiac, so to speak. I do know that the Warrior of Light was attacked and left in a bad way. The villains kept him under the effects of a heavy-duty sleeping spell and tucked him away in that mock-up of a hospital as bait for any other Cosmos warrior that might come along. I think they designed for Firion, especially. The Emperor was seriously preying on Firion's heart with that one. Sheesh.

"Cosmos didn't have much luck with her other warriors until she came to Bartz. He was the first one, after the Warrior of Light, to believe her and to make an effort to gather the other warriors. When she realized that Bartz was doing as she asked, she told Theodore and Theodore in turn informed me and Kuja and Jecht. The three of us were tasked with helping Bartz in any way we could.

"Unfortunately, Bartz isn't the most…_subtle_ of people and the Cloud of Darkness immediately picked up on his activities. She's the in sky, y'know. She's the eyes and ears of the Chaos warriors. Luckily for us, she focuses on Rift and the towns around it, otherwise she'd have noticed the country house by now and that would be beyond terrible. So because of her, all the villains are on the move and all of our hard work and organized plans fell to scrap. Now we're just gathering everyone we can and playing it by ear, I guess…"

Squall turned this information over in his head. On any other day he would have told Laguna that he was insane and that he should see a therapist right away. But Squall couldn't deny that everything he'd just been told made utter sense to him and after meeting some of the warriors on the list and seeing Ultimecia, he couldn't pretend that there wasn't a ringing sense of genuineness to his father's tale.

That night, Squall dreamed in memories. He saw Balamb Garden and Rinoa, beautiful as ever, and he saw Ultimecia on a self-made throne. He saw himself sitting up in a mockery of his home world, a tiny fragmented imitation of Ultimecia's Castle, and somehow _knowing_ that there was a great battle to be fought. He saw cycle after cycle unfold and each time the world around him became more and more distressed. He saw everything fall apart…

He awoke in a cold sweat, lurching upright and grasping for his gunblade. It was suddenly there, gleaming into existence in the palm of his hand with a familiar and comforting weight and his finger easily found its position at the trigger. He marveled at the weapon, straight from his dreaming, from his past, distant and recent alike.

"Wowie," said Laguna, in an awed whisper. Squall's head jerked sideways. His father was sitting on the foot of his bed, silhouetted in the mid-morning sunlight that leaked through a gap in the curtains. "Sometimes I still can't get over how proud I am of you for mastering the gunblade."

Squall brushed off this comment, mostly because he didn't quite know how to react, but partly because he was anxious to get to this country house and see his friends.

"Are we going to be leaving soon?"

"Soon as we can, kiddo," chirped Laguna. "I just, er, need directions." He held up the cell phone in his hand. "I tried calling the country house, but no one picked up. I'll try someone's cell phone instead…"

Laguna fussed with his phone for a moment and then brought it to his ear, humming quietly as he waited for his call to be answered. Squall whiled away the meantime by crawling out of bed and dragging himself to the bathroom. He left his gunblade sitting on the mattress and vaguely wondered what he ought to do with it. He didn't really want to leave the motel with it slung over his shoulder, that would be suspicious, but he wasn't fully confident that he could just will it to disappear. What if he couldn't make it come back again?

He was vaguely aware of his father's slightly raised worried voice as he started up the shower, but after that the rushing of water drowned out all outside sounds. As he undressed, something small and gray clattered to the floor, fallen from the pocket of his pants. Bemused, Squall crouched and retrieved the item from where it had tumbled beneath the cabinets. It was a necklace: a thin gold chain sporting a vicious little crystal comprised of long, sharp edges. The tiny thing emitted a presence that flooded the entire room and Squall instantly knew what it was. He grinned a little and tucked his crystal safely away into his pant pocket. He resumed his previous task and checked the temperature of the water. When he emerged some fifteen minutes later, re-dressed and refreshed, Laguna was sitting with his head in his hands. Squall was immediately wary.

"What happened…?"

Laguna glanced up at his son. "We're leaving. Right now. Get your sword."

Squall found himself obeying without question and he followed Laguna out to the parking lot without a single word. He tossed his weapon in the backseat and settled himself in the front seat as Laguna started up the engine. He had clearly gotten the directions he needed, because there was no time wasted with aimless wandering, as there had been the night before. Laguna's expression was hard set and his actions were decisive.

"What happened?" Squall asked again, more demandingly this time.

Laguna heaved a heavy sigh. "I got a hold of Jecht and he's in a bad way. I ought to have figured, really, I mean, Theodore mentioned something happened to Kuja, but I didn't realize he was _dead_! This is terrible. Killed by the Emperor. Really, who else could it have been?" Laguna shook his head and said no more.

Squall winced. His recovered memories reminded him that Kuja and Jecht had grown to be close due to the similarity of their back-stories and had then grown even closer after defecting to side of Harmony. The Emperor was in for _Hell_ and Squall could almost feel sorry for him.

"He'll be back, though," said Squall, not sure if he was speaking to his father or to reassure himself.

"Yes," said Laguna, "he'll be back. We just don't know _when_."

* * *

It was a long day's drive to the country house. Somehow, the night before, Laguna had managed to take them in the correct general direction and had sorely lacked in merely the specifics of street names and numbers. By the time the sun was sinking under the horizon, a mere sliver of gold crowned with violent reds and purples, Laguna was just pulling up beside a shiny red SUV in an expansive gravel driveway. The house itself was a sprawling building of wood, with a wide front porch and a welcoming front door. The place was lined with windows, some illuminated, others dark, and the premises were quiet, but not eerily so.

Squall palmed his gunblade; he absentmindedly gave it a twirl and allowed it to vanish in a flicker of light. He felt safe here and confident that he could call his weapon back whenever he needed it.

Laguna led the way up to the front door and rapped on its wooden face concisely. Scarcely a moment later, the door was thrown open and the men on the doorstep found themselves yanked inside by a delighted brunette woman. She beamed at them and gave them each a quick hug before turning and shouting into the house.

"_Laguna's here_! _He found Squall_!"

"Tifa!" cheered Laguna. "Wonderful to see you again!"

"And you," she returned jovially. "Squall, are you hungry? Has your bone-headed father remembered to feed you?"

Squall chuckled slightly. "He remembered yesterday when I told him to get me In-and-Out, but that was it."

"You haven't eaten all day?" asked Tifa. She swatted Laguna's arm lightly. "I don't understand you sometimes, Laguna. You both must be starving! Come on. Cecil, Terra and I were just finishing up the dishes, but there are plenty of leftovers. We've got a full house and lots of food!"

Squall and his father had barely taken three steps into the house when there was the sudden _crash_ of a door slamming followed by a thundering of footsteps. From around the corner, racing in from the backyard, came two familiar faces.

"_SQUALLIUM_!"

Bartz and Zidane slammed into their boring friend and the trio promptly tumbled to the floor in a heap. Bartz and Zidane were laughing raucously and grinning so wide that it seemed they might split their faces in half. Squall, for his part, managed an honest smile and endured their combined weight on his chest and stomach and allowed them their moment. He would _never_ admit that he fully welcomed their attention—he had been worried fiercely about these notorious troublemakers.

"Okay, okay," he said at length. "Get off me. I can't breathe."

Still giggling like giddy children, Bartz and Zidane rolled off their friend and sprung to their feet. Each offered a hand to Squall and he let them pull him up.

"Oh, man, we've been worried about you!" exclaimed Zidane, and then abruptly he flushed scarlet. "Well…once we realized you were _missing_, I mean… It was kind of, er, hectic for a while… We busted Bartz and Light out of the hospital and, well…"

"Lots of stuff all at once," said Bartz, somewhat frazzled. "It was madness."

Squall took no offence. He shrugged one shoulder and scrounged up a smile. "I heard you've been having a rough time. And I, uh, heard about Kuja."

At this Zidane dropped his eyes to the floor and Bartz looped an arm around his younger friend's shoulder and squeezed him close.

"He'll come back," Squall promised. "I know you've heard that a million times and it probably makes shit sense, but he will."

Bartz looked at Squall sharply, taken by how earnestly the young man had spoken and instantly noticing the enlightened gleam in those grey eyes.

"You remember," Bartz said quietly.

Squall nodded. "I've got access to my weapons and strength, too."

Bartz's eyes lit up with excitement. "We should start sparring! Cecil's been asking if anyone wanted to start getting back into real fighting shape, but we've been kinda swamped here and not many of us really have access to our full capabilities."

"Sparring would be good," said Squall, "but I think we should see to that one first." He nodded at the subdued Zidane. "And I'm hungry."

They settled themselves at the table in the kitchen with Laguna while Tifa, Cecil, and Terra bustled about with the dishes. True to Tifa's word, the leftovers were more than enough to feed the intensely famished father and son and the mildly hungry Bartz and Zidane. Eventually, Terra flittered away to her room and retired for the night. Cecil left some time after, to which Bartz rolled his eyes and muttered something about Cecil probably leaving so quickly because now was around the time that Kain usually came through the kitchen for a drink. Sure enough, not five minutes later, the impressive blond man sloped into the room and headed straight to the cupboards for a glass.

"Good to see you, Squall," he said breezily as he filled his cup with something from the counter on the other side the fridge, just out of sight. It was probably something alcoholic.

"And you, Kain," Squall returned easily.

Kain leaned back against the countertop and looked at Squall critically. "You've recovered your old self. Good."

Squall raised an eyebrow. "Is there some kind of tell-all to this that I'm not getting?"

Kain chuckled. "It's in your eyes. You're looking at me like you recognize me, but we've only briefly met in this world and it wasn't a very happy meeting."

To this, Squall conceded with a slight shrug and went back to eating. Kain silently finished his drink and left the cup in the sink before exiting the room. Laguna and Tifa, as if sensing some unspoken need amongst the three friends to be alone, moved their conversation to the living room.

"How're you holding up?" Squall asked quietly.

Zidane swirled the remaining liquid in his cup and didn't answer for a long moment. He frowned to himself and eventually shrugged. "I just feel kind of numb at this point," he mumbled. "It's…weird, y'know? I mean I watched my brother get burned to hell not even a _week_ ago and now everyone's telling me he'll come back, don't worry,_ he'll come back_…"

"He will," assured Bartz. Zidane threw him a small, grateful smile.

"But it's more than that," insisted the blond. "It's… Everyone has these memories and these powers and this…_knowledge_ that's so vital and world-changing and… I don't have any of it. I'm like…the useless tag-along party member who doesn't do anything. Y'know?"

Bartz wrapped his warm, slim fingers around Zidane's wrist and held it tight.

"Hey," he said. "You're not useless. Okay? These things take time. Dude, it took me contact with like…four villains and severe injury to get my memories and powers back. Please don't feel rushed to get yours back, too. Just…wait for Kuja. I'm sure he'll have a much kinder way to recover everything you've lost."

At this, Zidane cracked a genuine smile and peered sidelong at Bartz through his bangs. "Now you're the one being all logical on me and you paid less attention in school than I do."

Squall was downright confused, but said nothing. Bartz's lips puckered for a moment while he tried to recall the source of this particular reference and when it clicked, he grinned.

"Trust me, Zid. You're gonna be absolutely fine."

* * *

**A/N:** Hey guys, in continuation of the above note, I just want to tell you that beyond this chapter, I have absolutely nothing else written. But that isn't meant to turn you away or anything. I just want to be utterly and totally honest with you, because I believe you deserve nothing less than the truth. I'm posting this as a way to both assure that I'm still working and to ensure that I will continue to work. I won't start posting more chapters until I have the next few are written and edited and ready to go. In a few weeks, I'm going to an island where I will have extremely limited Internet connection (which sounds familiar, right? I'm sure I've mentioned being somewhere with limited Internet before!) and during that time I will be working relentlessly on re-playing Dissidia and writing new chapters.

I also cannot believe I let myself slip up so badly on this story. I double cannot believe I had the audacity to slip up _before_ bringing Kuja back! I've been so looking forward to writing that and it's gonna happen really soon and I'm so excited…!

(Oh! And for that last reference, it goes all the way back to chapter five after Bartz and Zidane have fled from Sephiroth posing as a used car salesman.)


	14. Chapter 13 :: Reigniting the Light

**Disclamation! **Dissidia: Final Fantasy © Square Enix.

**A/N:** WoL x Firion shipping like _whoa_! I love this pairing.

Looking at my notes, I have WoL down as "Warrior of Light – 19: coma patient, Order's Sanctuary General Hospital" and I can't help but wonder what drove me place him at nineteen… True, he has a very youthful face in all the original artwork by Amano, but that doesn't _reeaallyyy_ carry over into the game graphics…and his voice is very deep (then again, I know a fair few young people with surprisingly deep voices)… I think I was trying to bring him a little closer to the age I gave Firion (which is seventeen), but then that doesn't fully make sense because I have Zidane and Bartz at ages sixteen and twenty, respectively. Hm…

_THE MESSENGER (featuring Your Favorite Enemies) – Takeharu Ishimoto_

* * *

**The Messenger**

Chapter Thirteen :: Reigniting the Light

The ceiling fan turned slowly overhead, sending hazy shadows in perpetual circles, forever chasing itself in a never-ending game. The curtains were parted, letting in the crisp warm sunshine, and the window was cracked to keep the air in the room from going stale. The mattress was soft and pliant, molding to the shape of his body, and the pillows were perfectly silky. The duvet was neither too thick nor too thin, it was just right and it seemed to sustain a perfectly moderate temperature.

And yet… The Warrior of Light was feeling uncharacteristically miserable.

He felt thin and exposed, vulnerable without his armor and defenseless without his weapons. And he felt somewhat wretched, because he knew all too well how true that was. His body ached all over with points of soreness where there had once been wires and tubes taped beneath his skin—all useless, a mockery to hold up an illusion. His head pounded and he felt dizzy; he had not had a proper meal in a very long time, too long to remember, and the effects were hitting with the force of a brick wall.

He had been awake for a good six hours, opening his eyes to a soothing blackness, the sound of soft breathing close on his left side, and a tiny clock with '_2:00_' offering the only source of light. He had been instantly aware that he was no longer in the Emperor's captivity, no longer being detained in that mock-up hospital, but he had absolutely no sense of time. How long had he been unconscious? How had gotten here? _Where_ was 'here'? What was happening outside? Was the battle still waging on? Had Cosmos been defeated or did she now reign victorious? Could that be why he was now awake? And what of Firion? Last he knew, Firion could not recognize him and had refused to trust him. What had happened to change Firion's mind?

A glance at the bedside table told him it was now eight AM. He could hear shuffling footsteps passing outside the door and quiet, sleepy voices speaking indistinctly. There was a faint clinking of dishware and a symphony of machines beeping and doors being opened and closed. A faint scent of coffee drifted through the cracks in the doorframe.

Light could not fathom where he could possibly be.

Though, he supposed, if he was with Firion, it could not be anywhere bad.

Thinking of Firion…

With some effort, Light managed to roll onto his side and shift into a comfortable position without causing the mattress to shake too much. He noted with a smile that Firion still slept slightly curled with his hands loosely clasped under his chin and cheek. Light slid his own hand across the short span of mattress that separated them and slipped his fingers between Firion's palms.

Firion stirred immediately. His eyes fluttered and he swallowed thickly, mumbling a little bit as he emerged from his dreaming. When his glazed eyes found Light's, he sighed and his lips quirked pleasantly upward.

Then it sunk in.

Firion's eyes snapped open, fully alert, and he pushed himself up onto his elbow. All he could do was stare and Light stared peacefully back, though he couldn't help the smile that was creeping onto his face.

"Light…!" gasped Firion. "You're… You're awake! Oh Gods, it's been days… Theodore said the spell was strong, but for a while it seemed like you would _never_ wake up and…"

"Firion," Light said gently and the other silver-haired boy quieted instantly. "I am so happy to see you."

There was a greater depth to Light's words—a depth that lead to all the heartache he'd endured when Firion could not recognize his face and even further back to the bitter fighting that took place in Dissidia when neither could be certain they'd ever see each other again.

Firion broke into a watery smile. "_Gods_, I'm so happy to see you awake at last."

He leaned over and pressed a desperately wonderful kiss to Light's lips. It was a single kiss that spoke volumes on Firion's relief and joy. Light only wished he felt more able to reciprocate and had to end the kiss before it went anywhere.

To Firion's puzzled expression, he chuckled and said, "I can't remember the last time I ate anything."

"Ah," said Firion, understanding immediately, and then he smiled winningly. "I should like to treat you to breakfast in bed." He gave Light a peck on the lips. "Sit tight. Don't go anywhere."

Then he nearly catapulted himself out of bed and slipped out the door before Light could tell him that the odds of him moving were slim to none. Light opted to pull himself into an upright position instead and listened with a partial smile to the sounds that carried down the hall and through the door that Firion had left cracked open. There was too much obstruction between the room and the kitchen to hear anything properly, but Light could hear the elated shouts and happily raised voices of his comrades. There was a joyful _whoop_ that sounded distinctly like Bartz, Tidus's unmistakable laugh, and Tifa's maternal murmur.

Immediately after there was a thunder of footsteps and the voices drew closer. Moments later, the door was flung open and Light's vision was swarmed with the faces of his friends. Cecil came through first, positively _glowing_ with happiness, and settled himself on the edge of the mattress so that he could pull Light into a careful, but fierce, embrace.

Light was soon barraged with hugs and exclamations of relief and excitement. Bartz. Tidus. Terra. Zidane. Squall. Laguna. He endured them all bravely, never frowning or speaking out about the hunger that was gnawing on his insides.

"_Light_! _Oh my god, you're awake_! _This is great—_!"

"_Finally_!_ I thought Firion was going to _explode_ if you didn't open your eyes soon_—!"

"_Warrior of Light, it's about time, young man_—"

"_I came by your room every day at Order's Sanctuary. I always had to make sure you were still safe. I was so worried—_!"

Lightning pushed her way through the mass and clapped a hand roughly on his shoulder. He stifled the wince and returned her flat stare.

"Way to go, hero," she said bluntly. "Theodore's told me all about your little misadventure." Then she cracked a slight grin. "Very impressive. It's good to see you among the living again."

She stepped back, allowing Kain to move away from where he'd been waiting in the doorway and have his piece. Cecil's cheeks turned a curious pink as the dragoon approached and he shifted further away, sinking between Squall and Bartz as if hoping the brunets would hide him. Kain paid this no mind; he was unfortunately accustomed to this behavior. He reached out and clasped Light's forearm as he would a brother in arms and Light returned the gesture automatically.

"You gave us quite a scare," rumbled Kain. "I wouldn't recommend a second attempt."

"Not until I have suitable backup," replied Light, nearly smirking.

Kain did smirk. "Let me know when I ought to be getting ready."

"Of course."

Tifa bustled in with a loaded tray and a commanding presence.

"Okay, okay, we're all happy to see him," she said loudly. "Clear out now. He needs to eat. He's likely starving and overwhelmed, but is too polite to say anything or kick you lot out. That's where I come in. I'm kicking _all_ of you until Light says otherwise. _Got it_?"

The other warriors groused only halfheartedly and filed out of the room, each sending Light a departing smile or wave or word. Cecil was the last to exit, leaving Light alone with Tifa and Firion, the latter carrying another plate and a glass of orange juice.

Firion spoke up timidly. "You're not kicking me out, too. Are you?"

Tifa laughed lightly. "Of course not. It'd be useless to try, wouldn't it?"

Firion grinned. "You bet."

Tifa shook her head and placed the tray on the bedside table. The tray bore a bowl of cream of wheat, sprinkled generously with brown sugar, a plate of lightly buttered toast, a banana, a glass of water, and a smaller glass of orange juice*. The food was plain so as to not upset Light's stomach, achingly empty but made delicate by his long period of imposed fasting. Nevertheless, the sight of it had his mouth watering.

"I'll leave you be," Tifa said gently. She made to leave and then, abruptly, turned back and pressed a quick kiss to Light's cheek before she slipped out of the room.

Firion seated himself cross-legged on the mattress next to Light, plate in his lap and cup on the bedside table. His breakfast was only slightly more interesting than Light's: he had a pair of pancakes drizzled with strawberry syrup. Light did not care. He understood the need to take things slow food-wise and besides, this simple bowl of cream of wheat was a five-star meal as far he was concerned.

Light took the entire tray onto his lap and began to eat, forcing himself to take the meal one bite at a time even though he wanted nothing more than to wolf it down and finally feel _full_.

There was a comfortable silence between the couple, broken only by the gentle clink of silverware on china plates. Only when Light had finished his toast and downed the last drops of juice did he turn to Firion, his eyes shining brightly with newfound energy.

"Let's go see our friends."

* * *

Kain looked up from his sparring with Lightning as Firion and the Warrior of Light made their way across the back porch. The day was bright and beautiful and the weather was decidedly warm—not so cold to dissuade the warriors from venturing outside, but not so hot as to cause them discomfort. In short, it was perfect weather for sparring.

Kain stood proudly in his dragoon armor, lance in hand and helm glistening in the sunlight. Even in full armor, Kain was barely beginning to sweat. He paused his attack, holding out his palm as a signal for Lightning to pause as well, and focused on the silver-haired couple.

Light was still weak, as made plain by the way he gripped Firion's proffered arm for the duration of their simple trek from the bedroom to the porch, but there was determination gleaming bright in his eyes. Given time to recover, Kain was certain that Light would be back to full strength soon enough.

A flurry of motion distracted the dragoon. He turned in time to see Lightning rush at him, weapon blazing. He dodged sloppily, recovered his footing quickly, and brought his lance up to deflect her next blow.

There was a suspended moment in which she pushed her face close into his.

"There is no pausing in battle," she growled. Then Kain shoved her away and the match resumed.

* * *

Bartz watched the silver couple from afar. He was sitting in the grass, enjoying the sunshine with his friends, some distance away from the sparring, but within easy range of the porch. Even from this distance, Bartz could see the presence that hung around Light—the _Warrior of Light_—it was plain to see that he was one hundred percent aware of everything that had happened in both the distant and the recent past. He was already carrying an invisible weight about his shoulders: the weight of leadership and the weight of worry.

Bartz only wished there was something he could do to lighten the load.

Looking at Firion, the mime found it difficult to believe that the warrior had not yet recovered his full memories and strength. As always, Firion was keenly perceptive and quick on the uptake, but there was a barrier in his eyes that betrayed how little he truly _knew_ of what was going on around him. He knew the tale from his comrades, from the eyewitnesses that stood all around him, but he had no personal experiences to draw from. Not yet…at least…

Bartz turned ruefully to Zidane. "Do you think I should tell Light what happened to his crystal or just wait for him to bring it up first…?"

"Definitely wait," said Zidane. And then he frowned slightly as a thought occurred to him. "Do you have yours? Tifa told me that you get one when all your memories come back…but you never mentioned getting one… Or you, Squall."

Squall grunted noncommittally and leaned back onto his elbows, legs stretched out before him, so that he could dig a hand into his pocket.

Bartz shrugged. "It never really occurred to me, I guess. I'm just so used to having it that it didn't feel particularly special when it appeared. It just felt normal."

Bartz drew a vaguely mushroom-shaped purple crystal from beneath the collar of his shirt. Like Light's, his was on a thin gold chain and the moment it was free of the confines of his shirt, its presence surged forth and surrounded them like a warm, comfortable blanket. Simultaneously, Squall pulled a lethal silver crystal from his pocket. Both items were small, but the power they emitted was immense.

"It was the same for me," monotoned Squall, fingering the sharp, knife-like lines of his crystal. "I didn't know I had it until it fell out of my pocket."

Zidane glanced between the crystals, feeling the complete immersion of their dual presences, and then looked toward the porch. Light met his stare and the blond genome felt the sting of guilt in his chest, but Light's eyes were filled with understanding and resolute forgiveness. The Warrior of Light _knew_, but the fact that he held no misgivings for the untimely loss of his crystal made Zidane feel all the worse.

"I wish my stupid brother would hurry it up all ready," muttered Zidane. "We've got more than one crystal waiting for him to come back."

* * *

That night, Theodore called all occupants of the house together for a meeting. The warriors assembled in the living room—their number now included Cloud who had been picked up by Tifa the day before yesterday when Bartz awoke to his recovered memories—and waited with scant patience for Theodore to begin. The warriors were crammed among the sparse furnishings, squeezing onto the loveseats and on the sofa, while others preferred to stand and watch as Cecil's brother paced the floor, front door to kitchen doorway. Back and forth. Lightning broke the silence first, arms folded, glaring as she sat on the armrest of the sofa that Bartz and Zidane were sharing, sandwiched between Squall and Laguna.

"You're going to wear a hole in the floor, Theodore," she said impatiently. "Get on with it already."

Theodore narrowed his eyes at her and was quiet for a moment longer, and then finally he spoke: "We are drawing near to the end. I can feel it. We are missing only four members of our side and I am certain they will be joining us soon. Memories and strengths are returning. I am confident that it will only be a matter of days until all are at full power. In light of this, there are a few small issues that absolutely need to be sorted out." At this, he glanced meaningfully between Cecil and Kain, who stood at opposite sides of the room from each other. "I need everyone to get along. I do not care _how _you decide to solve your problems, I just want them solved and put to rest, because in order to win this war we need to be able to work as a cohesive unit. No quarreling with each other. No ignoring each other. No avoiding each other. Understood?"

Kain gave a curt nod, but he did not allow his eyes to wander towards Cecil.

Cecil mumbled, "Yes, sir," but his expression was one of great reluctance.

Theodore sighed, unhappy with the response he received but having other important matters to address.

"Similarly," he went on, "I need all who have yet to acquire their memories to put all effort into regaining what they have lost. Specifically, I want Jecht and Tidus to work with one another. Talk, spar, joke, argue. Whatever it takes. The simplest thing could trigger memories and until that trigger is found, I don't want to see either of you resting or spending any time apart." He focused on Jecht intently now. "You especially need to put your all into this. When Kuja returns, he is going to be severely disappointed if he comes back to find you sulking like a child."

Tidus and a few others sniggered at this remark, but Jecht scowled and at glared at them until they quieted down. To Theodore, he said grumpily, "Sure thing."

Theodore continued, "Zidane, work with Bartz and Squall. They were your closest companions in Dissidia and they can help in your recovery while we wait for your brother. Firion, continue as you are with the Warrior of Light. You've encountered your villain and I suspect that you, perhaps, need a stronger trigger than the Emperor. I have noticed a pattern of warriors reaching revelation quicker through positive encounters than with negative, with bonds of love and friendship over those of strife. Terra..." Theodore hesitated. "Go with who you are comfortable with. In the meantime, I am waiting to hear from Luneth. Once I have contact with him, I will have him return to the country house. I believe that Luneth will be the key to unlocking your full power."

Terra nodded. "Thank you… But did you say 'have him _return_?'"

Theodore chuckled. "Yes, _return_. Luneth was the second, after the Warrior of Light, to recover his memories. While the Warrior of Light was dealing with confrontations with the Emperor, Luneth arrived here in full power. He told me that he had seen the Goddess of Harmony in a dream and awoke with a crystal shining on his chest. Calais, herself, confessed to never appearing before Luneth in either dream or reality, but she suspects that his youthful courage and propensity for fairytales is what saved him. His mind was so willing to believe in tales of magic and war that the buried memories were brought forth and nurtured. Luneth, essentially, recovered himself."

"So where has he been all this time?" asked Terra anxiously, at once relieved and worried to hear about her dearest friend. Recovered, but alone and somewhere unknown.

To which Theodore replied plainly, "Searching."

* * *

Luneth was crawling, hand over hand, through the mud. His jeans and shirt were caked, his shoes were filled to the brim and his socks were completely saturated. There was dirt under his fingernails and pressed into the lines on his palms, into any tiny crease in his skin and it seeped into his hair. He kept his mouth pressed firmly shut and his eyes narrowed, but still there was mud in his teeth and his eyelashes. All he could smell was the earthen scent of wet soil mixed with fallen garbage and he tried not to think too hard on how much of the stuff he'd accidentally ingested.

What he wouldn't give for a hot shower and clean clothes.

But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Not here. Not now. He was so _close_.

Ever since he'd called in Bartz's crash, he'd been walking on eggshells. That simple phone call had brought him into the open long enough for the Cloud of Darkness to see him from her lofty perch and she had immediately informed the Emperor like a lapdog. The Emperor had then made good use of this information and a mere hour after making the call Luneth was being pursued by a small legion of Exdeath's manikins under the guise of local police officers. Because, really, who would think anything strange about a swarm of twenty nearly identical policemen all chasing after a runty teenage boy?

But Luneth was quick, quicker than they were by a long shot, and he had shaken them off his tail by entering the woods near Bartz's cabin. He'd waited a day, camping out in the treetops until the coast was clear, and then he returned to his mission.

A few miles outside of Rift there was a highway overpass, a seemingly useless overpass as it suspended the road over absolutely nothing—unless you wanted to count the pit of mud Luneth was now stuck in—and there was something that rung sour about it. Luneth hadn't _meant_ to slip, but mud had this terrible tendency to be slippery and so the act of slipping was really unavoidable. Every time he tried to stand back up, it was only to lose his footing and fall all over again. But Luneth had a hunch, a very bad, very awful hunch, and if that hunch was correct, than he couldn't afford to stop now.

At last he reached the wide concrete support that stood like a sentry in the middle of the pit. It was some number of feet wide, but only about five feet thick and as he'd approached it, Luneth was certain he had seen the outline of a small doorway. A doorway was very much possible, very likely even, as it would explain the multitude of times he had witnessed the Cloud of Darkness ooze her way through the cumulous ceiling only to vanish in this area.

Using the wall for support, Luneth struggled to his feet and managed to stay upright. He moved alongside the concrete, fingers tracing and searching for any cracks or creases. It didn't take long before he discovered a distinctly hinge-like bulge in the otherwise smooth surface and soon after discovered the top of the door, which he followed to the opposite side. There was no handle or knob, but he had not expected there to be and so was unconcerned. He slipped a dagger from his waistband and set the tip to the crease, hoping to pry the door open by force.

"C'mon," he muttered, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon…!"

He doubled the strength of his grip and shoved the dagger more forcefully, wrenching it back and forth and only vaguely wondering if the blade might snap clean off. And then—

_Snick._

The blade sunk in to the hilt.

Luneth tentatively slid the dagger downwards and encountered minimal resistance. He pushed the dagger upwards and soon hit something solid. He frowned; puckering his lips and then pushing with all his might—

_CRACK_!

The door groaned heavily.

Luneth pulled his dagger free and the door followed an inch. Grinning, the Onion Knight dug his fingernails into the concrete and pried the door open. Beyond was a tiny room, hollowed out inside the support structure with dank walls and a muddy floor. The room was perhaps four feet deep, six feet wide, and a scant three feet tall.

Inside, Luneth's terrible hunch was confirmed.

"Oh, no…"

He stumbled into the room, stooping even with his small stature. Thankfully, the floor was firmer within, though that was a small mercy considering what he was now faced with.

Vaan and Yuna lay, unmoving, side-by-side in the dirt, both were bruised and their clothing torn and neither seemed to be breathing. Luneth dropped in front of Vaan, the closer one, and pressed his fingers to the boy's neck in search of a pulse. Nothing. But, he told himself in naïve hope, that didn't necessarily mean anything. Perhaps Vaan's pulse was just very, very faint and while that was still distinctly not good, it was better than no pulse at all. It meant that there was hope for his survival.

Luneth edged around Vaan's inert body and crouched precariously next to Yuna. He glanced at the door, half expecting it to slam shut and trap him inside as well. When the door remained wide open, he pressed his fingers to Yuna's neck, holding his breath as he concentrated. For a long while, he felt nothing and then… _There_! A flutter! He pressed a little harder and there it was again! A definite pulse!

Luneth did a tiny jig on spot in his excitement, being careful not to topple onto Yuna and yet unable to contain his enthusiasm. Once recovered, he awkwardly dug his cell phone from his back pocket, wiped the screen and keys of muck and speed dialed the country house.

There was static-filled quiet and then the call went through and Luneth silently thanked the heavens for Nokia.

"_Country house_," came Theodore's prompt, professional answer.

"It's me. I found them. I need immediate pick-up. They…er… They don't look so good."

* * *

* I may or may not have a thing about orange juice…because it pops up _a lot_ in this story. This _might_ have something to do with the fact that my house never has any and for some reason I just don't drink it very often at school…

And at last! Luneth is revealed! Finally! I've had this bit in my brain for a _long_ time and I was so excited when I planted a clue about Luneth and then kind of bummed when it seemed like no one picked up on it… :/ Ah well.


	15. Chapter 14 :: About a Mimic & His Genome

**Disclamation! **Dissidia: Final Fantasy © Square Enix.

**A/N:** I also have a great appreciation for cucumbers, but only in sandwiches. You guys can probably guess a lot about my eating habits by what I write. On an ironic note, my use of provolone cheese is, in relation to the previous sentence, misleading, because I'm lactose intolerant and somehow provolone is especially _killer_. But I still eat it, because it's my favorite…

Also, it's _that_ time again. School time! Once again, I am making my pilgrimage from home-sweet-home to the Land of Learning. Wahoo! So, the forecast from here on out is expected delays while I settle in and whatnot.

_THE MESSENGER (featuring Your Favorite Enemies) – Takeharu Ishimoto_

* * *

**The Messenger**

Chapter Fourteen :: About a Mimic and His Genome

The country house was thrown into instant chaos. Theodore had begun shouting the minute he hung up the phone, ordering for Lightning and Kain to prepare themselves and for Tifa to collect her materia and join them. He ordered the rest of the warriors to work on what he'd been previously lecturing them on—regaining memories and getting along. And then they were gone; the four vanished in a flash of light, transported to an undisclosed location and guided only by Theodore's command of magic and knowledge of where they needed to be. The remaining warriors were left to their own devices with no idea where the others had gone, when they would return, or what they would return _with_.

At length, Cecil spoke up, grimacing, "I suppose I'm off the hook for now."

"Not true," said Light and at Cecil's curious expression, he explained, "You would be wise to use this time to think about what it is you want to say to Kain, instead of avoiding the issue like you have been doing."

Cecil stared incredulously. "You've only been awake for a few _hours_, how could you possibly know that?"

"It only takes a few hours to notice that wherever Kain is, you are pointedly _not_. That in itself is highly unusual. I also know you very well and I know Kain very well. Based on this, it was easy to figure that you were upset with him. From there I figured that you have likely forgiven him for whatever he has done, because you are a very forgiving person and you do not hold grudges. Then it became a clear matter of you not knowing how to approach Kain and of Kain not knowing how to approach you either. He probably thinks you are still upset with him, because you have not given him any clear indication that you now feel otherwise. Kain clearly does not know how to react to you, because he also knows that you are forgiving and not one to hold grudges. The longer you avoid this issue, the worse it becomes."

Cecil was nearly scowling. "I forgot how damned perceptive you are. And blunt. Jeez, Light, you really know how to dish it out and make it hurt, don't you?"

Light smiled weakly. "My apologies. I suppose I could stand to work on tact."

Cecil waved him off and said heavily, "No need, my friend. In this case, I needed your bluntness." Cecil pushed off from the wall he was leaning on and dragged his hands through his hair. He sighed a world-weary sigh. "I need to think. I'll be in the gardens if anyone needs me."

The silver-haired paladin exited swiftly and despite his final words, it was apparent that he would prefer to be undisturbed.

"Well, then." Laguna bounced to his feet. "Who wants lunch?"

"Oh, god, I'll go with you," groaned Squall. "I don't trust you alone in a kitchen."

"We'll come, too," said Bartz, putting an arm around Zidane's shoulders. "We'll chat while we cook and see if we can jog anything in Zid's little blond noggin!"

He ruffled Zidane's hair affectionately.

"Fantastic idea!" cheered Laguna and he bounded into the kitchen, followed closely by Squall, Bartz, and Zidane.

They left the others to sort themselves out. Jecht and Tidus moved to the expansive back yard to spar, hoping a reenactment of their old rivalry in the form of a father-son sport might spark something in their minds. Firion and Light claimed the swinging chair on the front porch, settling comfortably together to talk while they waited for Laguna's inevitable call for lunch. Terra and Cloud remained alone in the living room, quietly regarding each other and waiting for the other to speak first. Inevitably, Cloud won out and Terra was first to break the silence.

"Have you regained all your memories?" she asked inquisitively.

"No," said Cloud.

"Oh…"

Terra fidgeted and Cloud blinked.

"Have you encountered your villain?"

"No."

"Oh… Neither have I."

"Oh." Cloud shifted uncomfortably. "I remember you, though."

Terra perked up. "Really?"

Cloud nodded. "Not a lot. Just a little bit. It's all fragmented, y'know?"

"Yeah, that's what it's like for me, too. Just bits and pieces."

"Well. What do you remember? Maybe we can fill the gaps for each other."

Terra beamed.

* * *

In the kitchen, a sort of conveyer belt was formed: it started with Laguna setting out two pieces of wheat bread on a plate and then passing it down the counter to Squall who slapped on sliced turkey and then passing it to Bartz who laid down the provolone cheese and then passing it to Zidane who added the lettuce and tomato. They left the sandwiches open so that they could be individually doctored to the liking of the consumer; the end of the counter was set up with bottles of mustard, mayonnaise, and a bowl of sliced cucumber. And as they worked, they talked.

"So _then_," said Bartz, in the midst of an elaborate retelling, peeling apart the circular slices of cheese with gusto, "we decided, 'Let's make it a race! First one to find his crystal is the winner!' And we shook on it and we ran off in different directions. It was great!" Bartz frowned. "Well, no, not really. It _started out_ great and then it got kind of scary…"

He stared at the provolone sitting innocuously on the layered turkey and then slid the plate to Zidane. Their fingers brushed as the genome took the plate and centered it in front of him. Though Zidane tried, Bartz kept his gaze downward and didn't meet the younger boy's eye.

"See, I won," Bartz continued, focusing once more on the task at hand. "Or, I _thought_ I won. I found _a _crystal, but it wasn't _my_ crystal. It was a fake. And when I brought it back to show you, it made you disappear the second you touched it."

"I tried to warn you," said Squall, "but you were too caught up in your game to listen to me."

Zidane gave a small chuckle. "That sounds just like us. Moving too fast to stop and listen. What happened next?"

It was particularly strange for Zidane to be hearing about events that he was supposedly involved with and it was stranger still for Bartz to be telling Zidane about his life.

"The crystal took you to this place from your home world, ironically enough called Crystal World, where Kuja was waiting for you. Back then he was on the bad guys' side and he'd set up this elaborate trap to catch you and like a fool I went right along as Kuja'd wanted me to. Anyway, he was waiting for you there—"

"What was he like?"

"Huh?" Bartz was startled by Zidane's abrupt interruption. "Oh. Ha," Bartz chuckled, "Kuja was a _riot_. I mean, not really. It's only funny _now_ when I think back, but at the _time_ the way he dressed was completely normal. He wore these stupid little jackets with big poofy sleeves that barely covered the upper half of his chest and he didn't wear pants either. He just wore _really_ tall boots and a _skirt_!"

Bartz was sniggering uncontrollably now, Laguna was laughing boisterously, and even Squall was cracking a smile. Zidane suppressed his own giggles and managed to squeeze out in a defiant, defensive tone, "Hey! Those skirts were to cover his tail for the sake of his vanity! Being beautiful means you have to make some tough choices sometimes."

The others stilled, looked at Zidane, and then the four of them dissolved into helpless peals of laughter. When their mirth eventually subsided, they straightened themselves out and, still chuckling, resumed their task.

"Okay," said Bartz through a splitting grin, "okay, okay, okay. So Kuja"—he sniggered—"was waiting for you at Crystal World and while I don't know the full context of what happened, I do know what you told me afterwards. Battle ensued, you won, he lost, and it all went down like it always does for heroes. Good triumphs and all that. Except you didn't look so pleased when you came back. You told me that Kuja's last words…no, it was the look on his face that stuck with you afterwards. You said he looked so _spent_, just really tired and really sad and that didn't sit right with you." Bartz sighed and shrugged helplessly. "And then nothing mattered, because we were shipped off by Cos— Calais to fight the God of Discord and the second it seemed like we were going to win that battle, _bam_! White lights and we were reborn in this world."

There was a stretched silence.

Bartz amended softly, "Reborn isn't the right word. We didn't go back to being babies or anything; we stayed the same age we were in Dissidia. It's more like our memories were reborn. Recreated, is more like."

The last sandwich was finished and added to the collection at the end of the counter. The muffled shouting and clash of weapons that emanated from the backyard where Jecht and Tidus were sparring broke the quiet. By the sound of it, they had become truly angry at each other, but it was anyone's guess if this was good or bad. Laguna jogged out of the kitchen to announce lunch to the other occupants of the house and Squall grabbed himself a plate, added a dab of mustard and a blot of mayonnaise and popped a cucumber slice into his mouth as he made his way to the table. Bartz and Zidane followed his lead, personalizing their own sandwiches and joining their bored-faced friend.

Cloud and Terra entered quietly; each fixed up their lunches, grabbed a soda from the fridge, and returned to the living room. Firion came in next. He shifted his own sandwich on the plate to make room for a second, placed the emptied plate in the sink, and filled two glasses with water, which he gripped expertly in one hand as he left the kitchen.

The back door slammed shut as father and son marched into the kitchen, both drenched in sweat, faces flushed, and grinning broadly.

"That'll show old Golbez!" crowed Jecht. "All this stupid nonsense about positive trumping negative. I call bullshit!"

"Yeah!" Tidus agreed heartily. "We just out and beat the shit out of each other and look at this!" Tidus extended his hand and immediately his sword swelled into existence. He gave it a few deft swings and let it vanish. "Strength and powers? Check! Memories? I'd say eighty percent complete."

Jecht scuffed up Tidus's hair and then punched his son on the arm. "Another go and I think we'll have you back in shape."

Tidus grinned and rubbed his now-sore arm, "This is awesome."

Tidus grabbed a sandwich, globbed on some mustard, and wolfed it down. He reached for a second as Jecht strode over to join him. The man didn't even bother with the formalities of eating one before taking another, he just went ahead and piled four sandwiches onto one plate and then claimed a seat at the head of the table.

"It's a good thing we made lots of extras," said Zidane, eyebrow raised.

"I don't understand," said Bartz. "How does beating the snot out of each other fix things? And do you have your strength back, too, Jecht? Or is it just Tidus?"

Jecht swallowed thickly and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. To Tidus he said, "Grab me a beer before you sit down, boy," and then to answer Bartz he said, "I've had my full strength for a long time now and a partial memory of Dissidia since I found Kuja again in this world. Now I can summon my weapon and I can remember parts of Spira." He grinned proudly. "The cry-baby and I have never agreed on anything, beating the snot out of each other is just what we do. It's just like old times, really."

Squall bore an expression of consternation. "I don't know if that's nice or just messed up."

"It's a lot of both," said Tidus, setting a beer bottle in front of his father and then setting his own plate and can of soda at the seat to his father's right. Tidus then went about picking out the tomatoes and the cucumbers he had just put into his sandwich, eating them separately first. "It's just how we've always been. Even before all Hell broke loose at home, we fought and argued and beat on each other. So in a way it's nice to go back to how we _are_, but it's also kind of twisted, because, really, we're just beating each other up. And that's kind of terrible."

Tidus polished off his lunch, leaving only a few stray bits of crust on his plate, which Jecht snatched up and ate. Father and son cleared their plates and took long swings from their drinks.

"Ready, kid?"

"You bet, old man."

The back door clattered shut behind them.

"They're an…interesting pair," remarked Bartz.

"No kidding," chuckled Zidane.

"He makes a good point though, Tidus does," said Squall. "About going back to how they've always been to unlock their memories." Squall fixed Bartz with a very pointed stare as he said this and Bartz returned the stare with a rather helpless expression.

"I'm feeling very left out, guys," said Zidane, glancing between the two.

Bartz answered without breaking eye contact. "Come on, Zid, let's take a plate out to Cecil. I'm sure he's hungry."

"Um…kay…?"

Bartz made a guess and slapped a little of everything on Cecil's sandwich, he grabbed a cup and filled it with water, and then, running on the assumption that Cecil was sitting with his rabbits, grabbed a few raw carrots from the fridge. Then he strode purposely out the door, confident that Zidane would follow.

Naturally, Zidane followed unquestioningly, though he was more than a little concerned about Bartz behavior—the mime seemed to be steeling himself, preparing for something, but Zidane couldn't guess what it might be. They had been friends for as long as Zidane could remember and they had always been so instinctively attuned to one another, but still the genome was uncertain.

As suspected, Cecil was sitting in the same little hollow of trees where Bartz had held Zidane the day he awoke with his health and memories restored. Cecil was sitting cross-legged under a tree, next to the hutch, with a blue-grey rabbit in his lap. He glanced up at the boys' approach and graciously accepted their offering of lunch, laughing a little when he saw the carrots.

Bartz led Zidane away, hands clasped tight, and he didn't stop until they reached an open stretch of grass, far away and yet still in view of the grove of trees that concealed Cecil and the tiny, fighting forms of Jecht and Tidus. Bartz flopped down onto the grass and pulled Zidane with him. The two boys lay on their backs, side by side, staring up at a crystalline expanse of clear blue sky. Their hands remained linked between them.

Zidane turned his head to look at Bartz, scrounging for the words needed to voice the questions forming in his brain. The mime was already a step ahead of him.

"We don't have quite the same history as Jecht and Tidus," he said, glanced sidelong at Zidane. "I mean, obviously. They're _related_ and we're not even from the same world. But I think Squall's right about Tidus making a really good point and we've still got some room to go back to how we were."

"You're being really vague, Bartz," said Zidane plainly. "I'm confused."

Bartz smiled secretively. "I also think Theodore had a good point about positive encounters being better for bringing about revelation than negative. Going off that, you've had plenty of encounters with Kuja, some good, some not so good, but nothing truly _bad_, right?"

Zidane shrugged awkwardly. "I guess so. He's a prick, but he's my brother and I love him."

"And he's also your corresponding villain, but you don't have the memories to explain how that's possible."

"No," agreed Zidane, "but I've heard bits and pieces. He had some kind of psychotic break?"

"Yeah, but that's beside the point right now."

"Then what is the point?"

"The point," said Bartz, freeing his hand and rolling onto his side so that he could use his elbow to prop himself up and face Zidane fully. He was now lying very close and looking softly down at the smaller boy. "The point," he said again, "is that Kuja isn't the only person who can trigger your memories."

"Isn't the only…?" Zidane echoed faintly.

"I wasn't going to bring this up right away, because I wasn't sure how you would take it without having any prior memories. And I'm really glad no one here _with_ memories mentioned anything about it, because that would have been really awkward for everyone and with Kuja being gone and you being kind of…um, not fragile, but not exactly in tip-top shape, there was no telling how you would react! See, I didn't want to do anything to upset you further and it's really hard to tell how things transferred into this world. I mean, look at Jecht and Kuja. I know they always flirted with each other in Dissidia and they probably were more of an item outside of prying eyes, but the minute they found each other _here_, they threw all caution to the wind. It was like they'd never really been apart, y'know? And then there's Firion and Light. They were kept apart at first and when Light got his memories and went searching, Firion didn't recognize him at all and outright refused to trust him! But then with us… We didn't even have to meet again, we just sort of woke up together with memories of knowing each other since childhood and that was it. So there was no way for me to guess how this could possibly go and I was kind of afraid that it wouldn't go well…"

Bartz trailed off uncomfortably as Zidane continued to stare at him with a slightly bewildered expression. The mime frowned and bit his lip.

"Oh, jeez," he said, distress creeping into his voice, "you still don't understand. Um, uh, jeez, I don't know what to do now. I'm not sure how to say this—"

"Don't," said Zidane, rolling his eyes. He pushed himself up to sit cross-legged in front of Bartz and now looked at his friend with a distinctly unimpressed expression. "I understand you perfectly on all accounts, except one. I don't get how you could _possibly_ think I would react badly! I mean, _really_. Do you know me at _all_?"

Bartz shifted into a cross-legged position as well, maintaining eye contact as he went, brow furrowed as he turned Zidane's words over in his brain.

"You mean…" he started, paused, and said, "What do you mean?"

Zidane rolled his eyes once more. "Quit being stupid, Bartz."

Without any further prompting or warning, Zidane leaned forward and kissed Bartz firmly on the lips. He pulled back and the two stared intently at each other for a long, breathless moment. Then they broke out into simultaneous grins. Bartz scooted closer so that their knees were pressed together and then he took Zidane's face in his palms, warm and gentle, and brought their mouths back together.

For Zidane, it was as though a switch had been flipped inside his brain. Suddenly the floodgates were opened and the memories rushed in with the force of a hurricane. _Tantalus_. _Terra_. _Gaia_._ Garnet_. Zidane wrung his hands in his lap. _Dagger_! Her face surfaced, sweet and beautiful, and then slipped away, smile fading… She was gone… Black waltzes swarmed in. _Vivi_. _Eidolons_. _Eiko_. _Kuja's emptied expression as he entered Trance. The Iifa Tree. Aching loneliness._

Bartz's hands never slackened their grip, his thumb brushed soft circles on Zidane's cheek, and a tentative sweep of his tongue on the genome's lower lip asked permission to go further. Zidane didn't hesitate before granting that permission.

Memories of fighting surged through him, of waking up a hundred times over to fight the same battle again and again and again and never being able to stop. Never resting. He saw Bartz always by his side, grinning and laughing, taking his hand, leading him through manikin-infested territories, battling back-to-back, racing to find crystals, waging war against Chaos…!

Zidane's hand clenched and closed around something warm and solid.

Distantly, they heard Tidus wolf whistling.

They jerked apart, faces flushes.

Zidane looked down at the small orange crystal resting in his cupped hands, perched atop a coiled gold chain. He lifted his chin and grinned at Bartz; Bartz grinned right back. Zidane clipped the chain around his neck, feeling the crystal's presence encompass him like a loving embrace. Then he surged forward, throwing his arms around Bartz's neck, and tackling the other boy to the grass with an exuberant hug.

Jecht added a catcall to his son's wolf whistling.

Zidane pointedly ignored them in favor of sitting up, shamelessly straddling Bartz's waist and grinning recklessly down at the older boy. The crystal around his neck dangled between them, dancing and glowing merrily on its chain. Bartz stared right back, face aglow with relief and something peculiarly akin to love.

"I just have one question," said Zidane.

"Ask away," said Bartz. By his tone, Zidane figured he could ask anything in the world and Bartz wouldn't bat an eye; the mime was so immensely satisfied.

"Why is Cosmos going by the name of a city in France?"

"Oh, right." Bartz propped himself up on his elbows and shook his bangs away from his face. "I tried asking Theodore about that, but the guy doesn't have a moment to spare for me even though he said he wanted to talk to me. Whatever. I asked Tifa instead. She said that Cosmos is wary about giving out her name to her warriors because it was the catalyst that made Light have his revelation. Apparently it wasn't this eventual thing for Light. She appeared before him, said her name, and _bam_! Revelation. Hit him like a stone and, well, Tifa said it caused this ripple or something. Because Light is this big, powerful Paragon of a warrior and he's our leader on top of that, so when that much power returns to one person all at once, it creates shockwaves. That's how the Emperor found out and eventually got hold of Light and stuck him in Order's Sanctuary General as bait."

"So after that she just figured she'd let us figure out who she is on our own?"

"Yah, pretty much."

"Huh," said Zidane, thoughtfully. "All right, then. Cool."

"If that's everything…" Bartz didn't bother finishing his own sentence, he just leaned in further and pressed his lips to Zidane's. And just when the moment seemed too perfect to be real, the sound of Laguna's frenzied voice shouting from the back door interrupted them.

Zidane groaned and rolled off of Bartz's lap, glaring towards the small, waving figure of Squall's happy-go-lucky father. Bartz sighed and ruffled a hand through his short hair.

"_Come quick_!" yelled Laguna. "_Jecht_! _Zidane_! _Get in here _now!"

"We better go see what he wants," said Zidane. He bounced onto his feet and took the hands Bartz held out to him, pulling the mime up as well. The pair strolled back to the country house, hand in hand, fingers entwined. Jecht and Tidus intercepted them at the back door, both smiled and winked knowingly at them. Zidane's cheeks pinked, but Bartz swelled happily. And then Laguna and, surprisingly, Squall were shoving them to the living room.

Time screeched to a sudden halt.

Standing in the gaping doorway between the living room and the entryway was Kuja.

* * *

**A/N: **To the wonderful inkie:

I never realize "The Between Space" was such a hit! This is awesome! It's making me more motivated to finishing the sequel I tentatively planned… :) Use all the exclamation points you want, I do that same thing! In fact, I'm using them extensively right now! Woo!

You, my dear reader, are just too much sometimes! You make me blush with all your compliments~ Honestly, sometimes I have a hard time believing you're actually talking about something that _I've_ written! You're an absolute star!

And now you're onto my blog! Ah! You've become two-fold! Before anyone knows it, I'll be walking around with a head the size of the sun because of you! :P Haha, you are fantastic! Thank you so much for taking the time to write such in-depth comments; they really are so awesome and so helpful. Thank you so, so much!


	16. Chapter 15 :: Resurrecting the Dead

**Disclamation! **Dissidia: Final Fantasy © Square Enix.

**A/N:** Guh! I'm the worst person in the world. Let's leave it at that, shall we? I owe a huge thanks to Nico Nissan for reviewing this story despite it last being updated in August… She has, without even intending to, kicked my butt into gear, driving me to review and edit all previous chapters and replay Duodecim for inspiration and characterization. Thank you, Nico Nissan!

**Warning:** character death. Isn't this great? I go away for months and when I come back, I give you character death! Yaaaay~ :|

_THE MESSENGER (featuring Your Favorite Enemies) – Takeharu Ishimoto_

* * *

**The Messenger**

Chapter Fifteen :: Resurrecting the Dead

"This is insanity," groused Kain.

He and Tifa were combining their personal brands of magic to send licks of heat scorching over the expanse of mud that separated them from the Onion Knight and their lost comrades, creating a hardened path to walk on. The effort was immense; they had been at work for well over an hour and had only just made it halfway. Sweat was dripping from their faces and down their backs.

"This is necessary," quipped Tifa, wiping her forehead with her arm.

"Hurry up, you two," said Lighting impatiently.

"You could help," snapped Kain.

"There's no room."

"I believe I was only just speaking about getting along moments before we left," Theodore inserted coolly.

Lightning scowled and held her silence. Kain growled low in his throat and then made an executive decision to cease his spell-work. Before anyone could complain, he gathered himself, leapt into the air, and latched onto the side of the support structure. He skidded down its smooth face until he feet touched the softened earth at the entrance of the room; from there he faced Tifa and resumed his magic, working outward to meet her.

Lightning joined the effort now and in a quick thirty minutes, the bridge was complete.

Kain turned and crouched in one fluid motion, facing into the darkened room, his expression hard and unreadable. It was like being on the job again and all the habits he'd built up in espionage returned as if they'd never really left—though he supposed the habits had never actually been built through espionage, but rather from his years of service as a dragoon in Baron.

Luneth was squatting against the far wall, crouched almost protectively over Yuna's gaunt form.

The dragoon and Onion Knight nodded briefly at each other and then Kain reached in and hauled Vaan's body out into the open. Tifa immediately took over from there, scooping up the boy and carrying him a little ways down the path, out of the way. She dug through the satchel that hung at her hip and withdrew a stethoscope she'd nicked from the veterinary center when she picked up Cloud. Tifa set the earpieces in place and warmed the resonator in her palms before placing it on Vaan's bare chest.

"No heartbeat," she whispered despondently.

Kain and Luneth pulled Yuna free from the room and laid her down next to Vaan. Theodore and Lightning stood as sentries on either side of the group, keen eyes sweeping their surroundings for any sign of danger.

"What was that?" Kain asked distractedly as he pressed the pads of his fingers to Yuna's wrist, confirming her pulse.

"Vaan…" said Tifa, "He hasn't got a heartbeat."

"What?" snapped Lightning, drawn from her scanning.

"He's gone," Tifa said quietly, staring down at the youthful face of a boy she'd once fought alongside. "We were too late. He's dead."

"Do you have any Phoenix Down?" Kain demanded.

Tifa automatically began to search her satchel and took out a small brown pouch of soft red pinfeathers. But then she said, "Phoenix Down only works if it's used immediately after death."

"There's no telling how long ago his heart stopped," insisted Lightning. "Try it anyway!"

"This is my only one," Tifa returned, pressing a hand to her face in distress. "I can't waste it—"

"So you'd rather let Vaan _die_?" snarled Lightning.

"He's already dead!" shouted Tifa.

"But the Down could save him!"

"You don't know that for sure!"

"_Enough_," boomed Theodore and he scooped up Vaan's body. "We do not have time for this. Alive or not, these two need to be taken to the country house. Luneth, close the door. Tifa, wash away the evidence. Lightning, pick up Yuna."

The warriors did as commanded. Luneth sealed the doorway and the group retreated to the end of the bridge where Tifa unleashed a wave of water, returning the path to its previous state.

A flash of light encompassed the group and they vanished, leaving the overpass as though they had never been there.

* * *

Kuja was wearing the same attire he'd worn in Dissidia. He looked as pristine and fresh as he always did, but his eyes were guarded and his lips were pressed in a firm line. He glanced between Zidane and Bartz, Squall and Laguna, Tidus and Jecht, and it seemed like he was trying to work out why they would all be in the same vicinity of each other. And then his expression slackened and he smiled thinly.

"I apologize if I seem…off," he said at length. "I'm having some difficulty sorting out the memories…"

The sound of Kuja's voice broke the spell; it shattered the illusion of him being an untouchable phantom and made him _real_. Jecht surged forward, catching the smaller man into his arms and spinning him around. Laughter bubbled from Kuja's throat, musical and genuine, he looped his arms around Jecht's neck and pressed their foreheads together. When they stopped spinning and Jecht returned Kuja's feet to the floor, the silver genome didn't give a second's pause before using his linked hands to pull Jecht down into a fierce kiss.

Squall sighed and shuffled out of the room with Laguna. Bartz would have followed except for the fact that Zidane had a vice grip on his hand and he was plainly not going to move anytime soon.

The couple split apart and stood in a close embrace for a prolonged and much needed moment. It seemed as though they had lost all concept of the world around them, so wrapped up were they in their reunion, but when Kuja finally loosened his arms and stepped back, his eyes went straight to Zidane. The silver genome smiled gently at his little brother and approached him with his usual pronounced strut.

"Tears for you resurrected brother?" purred Kuja, lifting his hands to Zidane's face, wiping away the tears that Zidane did not even realize were falling.

"Yeah, right," grumbled Zidane, waving Kuja's hands away and dragging his own across his cheeks, destroying the evidence. "More like tears of despair. It's been so peaceful without your nagging."

Kuja let out a bark of laughter and dragged Zidane in for a tight hug. "You're a true wonder, little brother. Making jokes already." Kuja suddenly twitched and held Zidane out at arm's length. He looked the younger genome over with critical eyes, from feet to the top of his head, and then his gaze settled on Zidane's chest. Specifically: Zidane's crystal. He smirked. "Well done. When did this happen?"

"Just now," replied Zidane, beaming proudly. He reached back and reclaimed Bartz's hand.

Kuja glanced between the two of them and his smirk broadened. "Took you long enough. I always knew that would be the catalyst for your revelation, why else would I have teased you so much before you regained yourselves?"

"Because you're a prick," Zidane answered without missing a beat. Jecht sniggered and Kuja looked dangerously close to pouting. However, whatever snarky response Kuja was sure to have on the tip of his tongue was interrupted by the sudden arrival of Theodore, who came bursting through the front door bearing the lifeless body of a very familiar boy.

"Kuja!" said Theodore, pausing only infinitesimally before hurrying to lay Vaan down on the couch. "Good. Perhaps your magic will be of use."

Lightning followed hot on Theodore's heels, carrying the equally lifeless Yuna. Lightning paused as well, but only to assess the remaining furniture—a pair of armchairs—before laying Yuna down on the rug.

Kain and Tifa bustled in next, both with tight expressions and closed off postures. Lastly, the diminutive form of Luneth slipped inside and gently closed the door behind him.

"First things first," said Theodore commandingly, "Yuna needs a healing spell. She has a weak pulse and no apparent injuries."

Tifa dug in her satchel for her Cure materia, but Kuja stopped her. She stared at him, her mouth hanging ajar with an unspoken argument, and Kuja smirked before kneeling at Yuna's side and working his silent but powerful magic. A faint greenish glow enveloped her and then quickly dissolved into her skin; Kuja sought out her pulse with deft, delicate fingertips and found it immediately.

"She will likely wake up soon," he said. "Tidus, take her to a room. I imagine you would both appreciate the privacy when she awakens."

Tidus didn't need to be told twice. He lurched forward from where he had previously been rooted the ground and carefully hoisted Yuna up into his arms, bridal style. His expression was one of stricken wonder, as though he couldn't decide if he was dreaming or not—or if he _wanted_ to be dreaming, given the wider aspects of the situation.

Once Tidus had exited with Yuna, the sitting room's remaining occupants pulled in closer around the sofa and Vaan's lifeless body. Even Squall and Laguna had reentered, though they hung back and hovered a few paces from the kitchen doorway for fear of getting in the way. At the mouth of the hallway, Firion stood with the Warrior of Light, Cloud, and Terra. All watched with quiet terror as the apparent corpse of an old friend was examined by the silver mage.

Kuja dropped to his knees before the sofa, next to Vaan's head, and passed his hand mere centimeters over the young man's slackened face. The genome's expression tightened, revealing nothing.

"Did anyone use a Phoenix Down?" he asked tersely.

Lightning scoffed derisively and glared at Tifa.

"No," the brunette answered stiffly. "I only have one and I was afraid of wasting it."

"Hm." Kuja made no further verbal response. He pressed two fingers to the pulse point on Vaan's neck, waited with furrowed brows, and then scowled. He placed his palm flat to Vaan's chest, directly over his heart, and began to mumble words of magic under his breath. The crease between his perfectly sculpted eyebrows deepened as the seconds ticked by without garnering a response from the boy.

In the background, Jecht shifted his weight anxiously from foot to foot. He would be hard-pressed to admit that he was worried for Kuja, but the fact of the matter was that he was deeply concerned for his lover's health. He didn't want Kuja to strain himself so soon after his resurrection.

Theodore was unreadable as always and Kain was ever the stoical figure. Lightning stood like a sentry over Kuja's shoulder and Tifa was only a few steps back, worrying the hem of her shirt between her fingers.

Zidane and Bartz gripped each other's hands with enough force to hinder blood circulation, but neither boy noticed. Both possessed fond memories of Vaan, of his youthful cheer, his confidence, his uncanny ability to make off-handed jokes and use those jokes with good taste and humor. Vaan was a dear friend to them, to everyone, and his would be a heavy loss.

Medicinal green consumed Kuja's hand, gushing from beneath his palm, but refusing the sink beneath Vaan's skin. The silver genome grit his teeth and pressed harder against his patient's chest. Still, the magic would not take. Sweat beaded across Kuja's forehead, dripped down his temple, over his cheek, and gathered at his chin. His body was rigid with effort.

Jecht shoved forward, pushing Lightning and Tifa out of his way, and kneeled at Kuja's side.

"Kuja," he said, his voice a soft rasp. "Babe… You've done all you can."

"No. I can do more," said the genome through his clenched jaw.

"I know you can. I know it, Kuj, but you gotta stop now."

Jecht placed a careful hand on the back of Kuja's neck, sliding it to curl over the junction of his shoulder. He was ready to pull his lover to his chest and away from their late companion.

Kuja's fingers dug into Vaan's skin, fingernails pressing crescent shapes into the boy's chest, but still the green remained as it was.

"You've done all you can," Jecht repeated. "We were just too late. You gotta stop now, babe. Please."

Jecht's final word broke the spell. Kuja's hand slid away from Vaan and the genome slumped sideways into his lover's arms. He allowed Jecht to tuck him beneath his chin and hold him as if he needed to be comforted.

"Tifa was right. Phoenix Down would have been wasted on him," Kuja murmured, not bothering to speak up because he knew he had everyone's undivided attention anyway. "From what I could tell, Vaan has been dead for nearly eight hours. I just thought…that maybe with my magic renewed, I could…somehow…"

"I know," said Jecht, rubbing Kuja's back. "I know."

Tidus crept back into the room in time to catch Kuja's words and his expression crumpled with despair. Nearby, Terra began to sob and Cloud took her under his arm without hesitation. The blond's face was neutral as ever, but there was a downward pinch at his mouth and a telling glassiness in his eyes.

"Who killed him?" asked the Warrior of Light. His voice was as steady and deep as it always was and the suddenness of his words nearly shattered the gloomy atmosphere.

"What does it matter who killed him?" snarled Lightning. "He's _dead_!"

"Light as a point," rumbled Kain, still unnervingly stoic. "Given the nature of this world, Vaan's body should have dispersed by now so that he can be resurrected by the Goddess."

"Who is his opposing villain?" asked Light.

"Can't we talk about this later?" demanded Lightning. Her eyes were over-bright, but she would be damned before she shed a single tear in the presence of others. "_Vaan_. Is. _Dead_!"

Terra wailed and would have collapsed had Cloud not been there to support her. He glared at Lightning before guiding Terra away to her room.

"Gabranth was from the same world as Vaan," said Kain, as though nothing had happened. "Wasn't Gabranth on Chaos's side?"

"It was never really clear," said Jecht. "That bastard just did as he pleased. And besides, I haven't seen him since the end of the thirteenth cycle! Weren't we on fifteen when everything got shot to Hell?"

Lightning snarled wordlessly and stormed out of the room, stomping past Squall and Laguna and into the kitchen. Moments later, they heard the back door rattling as it was flung open and promptly slammed shut.

"We were on the fourteenth," corrected the dragoon, expression now grim. "Several of us weren't available for the thirteenth and then were returned to continue in the fourteenth, which was what initially caused the enemy to take drastic action."

"Gabranth didn't make it to this world."

All eyes turned to the tiny Onion Knight, still hovering at the mouth of the entryway and still covered from head to toe in mud. He'd been so quiet they had nearly forgotten he was there. Now he stood shivering and sniffling, tears creating tracks of revealed skin down his cheeks.

"What do you mean, Luneth?" asked Theodore. "How do you know this?"

Luneth shrugged. "I've been pretty much everywhere in this world. I know almost everyone's location. I never found Gabranth _or_ Shantotto, for that matter. At one point I managed to listen in on a conversation between the Emperor and Ultimecia, he mentioned being glad that Gabranth wasn't around to put his nose in their business anymore. I, er, I think it's pretty safe to assume the Emperor did something to keep Gabranth out of this world."

When no one could immediately respond to this startling new information, Luneth politely excused himself from the room. "I need to be clean, if it's all the same to you, and then I need to see Terra. So…"

He vanished down the hallway without another word.

A soft, wordless call drifted into the room. Tidus gasped and scrubbed his hands across his face, clearing his cheeks of tears.

"_Yuna_," he croaked, because it suddenly struck him how close he had come to losing her. The young warrior took off down the hall, racing as he always would to answer her summons.

A weight settled over the room, pressing down on the remaining occupants with heavy despair. The only movement came from Kuja pulling himself from Jecht's grasp and rising gracefully. He paused to lay a delicate hand briefly on Vaan's cool shoulder in silent apology, or perhaps in farewell, and then strode to Zidane's side. The blond genome was clutching to Bartz's arm, face drawn grimly as tears tracked down his cheeks. For his part, Bartz was equally desolate. He had laid his cheek over the top of Zidane's head and had crossed his free arm over his stomach so that he could put his hand over the blond's.

"Are you all right, little brother?" asked Kuja.

Zidane shook his head and held on tighter to Bartz.

"Bartz," said Kuja. He said nothing more, but the mime understood nevertheless and, with a quick nod, guided Zidane into the kitchen. Squall followed immediately after, brows knit on his otherwise impassive face. Laguna gave only a second's pause before he hurried worriedly after his son.

Jecht grumbled as he stood, rolling his shoulders as if to loosen stiff muscles. "So we've got jack on what happened to Vaan and Yuna and there's no way of finding anything out that doesn't involve mingling with Chaos's minions."

"Vaan never had a chance, did he?" said Tifa, speaking up at last, her voice low and sorrowful. "Had Yuna died, she would have returned, but Vaan has no villain in this world." The brunette swallowed thickly. "It doesn't matter who's responsible for his death. He would have died by anyone's hand."

"There is no use talking about it anymore," said Kain. "Talking will not change anything. The best we can do for Vaan is to give him a proper funeral."

"I will make arrangements," said Theodore heavily. "In the meantime, it feels improper to leave him like this. I will take him to a private room."

The burly, silver-haired man stooped and lifted Vaan into his arms with surprising tenderness. Silently, he carried the body of their friend away and the living room was left in an eerie quiet.

Tifa pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and took several deep, steadying breaths. When she dropped her arms back to her sides, her face was pale and drawn.

"I need…" she said haltingly, "I need to bake. Or cook. I'm going to start making dinner."

On her way into the kitchen, she nearly walked headlong into Cecil. The pair danced awkwardly back and forth, trying unsuccessfully to pass each other, until Tifa let out a loud cry of distress and pushed Cecil to her left so that she could march past him on the right.

As Cecil entered the room, Firion and Light politely slipped away through the front door. Both were well aware that the confrontation sure to follow was one of immense privacy. Jecht took a hint from their actions and signaled for Kuja to follow him as he retreated to the kitchen; Kuja pouted and grudgingly obeyed.

Cecil fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, unable to hold Kain's gaze for longer than a few seconds before looking away.

"I didn't know you were back until Lightning came outside," he said quietly. "She said… It's not true, is it? Vaan. He's not…?"

Kain's armor dissipated and he stood before Cecil in his plain jeans and t-shirt, feeling smaller and vulnerable without the metal's familiar weight. He crossed his arms low over his abdomen, curling his fingers around his elbows. He shook his head.

"I am sorry, Cecil," he murmured.

The silver haired man felt as though he had been punched in the gut. "No…"

Kain moved before he could talk himself out of it. He rushed forward and pulled Cecil into his embrace, cupping a hand over the back of his neck and rocking him side to side. Cecil didn't hesitate to reciprocate the gesture. He wrapped his own arms around Kain's middle and held on tight, as though he was afraid he would lose him if he let go.

"I'm sorry, Kain," sobbed Cecil, voice muffled by the blond's shirt. "For everything. For avoiding you and not talking to you and being unfair to you… I am _so_ sorry."

"It is all right, Cecil," soothed Kain. "I was never angry with you. There is no need to apologize."

"There is every need to apologize!"

"Not for you, my love," said Kain. "_I _am who is sorry."

Cecil pulled back just enough so that he could tilt his chin up and meet Kain's eye. "What are you sorry for?"

"For lying to you about my job, for dragging you away from our home, for forcing revelation on you."

Cecil shook his head. "I forgave you for that a long time ago."

"That does not change the fact that I am sorry."

Cecil gave a small snort and said dryly, "I see what you've just done. Clever one, aren't you?"

Kain smirked. "I like to think so."

He moved his hand from the back of Cecil's neck and thumbed away the lines of moisture on his partner's face.

"No more tears, my love," he whispered. "At least not tonight. All members of our company have finally been gathered and I fear things must get worse before they can get better. We must carry on and we must be strong."

That evening the warriors sat down to the feast Tifa had prepared in her grief. The food was rich and delicious and the group ate until they could eat no more. No words were spoken, no more tears were shed, and each raised his or her glass in honor of Vaan.


End file.
